


Announcements - Chaps. 1 - 26

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-06
Updated: 2008-03-11
Packaged: 2018-12-27 01:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 57,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12070539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Justin is in NYC. Brian is in Pittsburgh. How the heck is that supposed to work?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

  
Author's notes:

 

 

* * *

 

**May 14th, 2007 – Pittsburgh  
Listening to: Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers - **[Scorpio](http://rapidshare.de/files/8292788/01_Scorpio.m4a.html)  
  
Brian Kinney  
6 Tremont Place  
Pittsburgh, PA 15207  
  
Fuck, I feel old. Molly Taylor is graduating from high school.   
  
The announcement arrived amongst a pile of bills and solicitations, and I nearly tossed it with the rest of the junk mail. It was that fucking perfect lettering on the envelope that made me think some computer had generated it. I guess it’s been awhile since I’ve seen Justin’s handwriting.  
  
I don’t want to go, but I said I would and it’s all Michael’s fault. The pathetic asshole dragged me to the fucking mall for his goddamn sunglasses and who did I run into but Jennifer and Molly Taylor. Just when I thought that family was nearly out of my subconscious, a giggly, seventeen year old blonde was begging me to come to her party. Guess I’ve always been a sucker for them, male or female.   
  
Will he be there? That’s the question of the hour that I couldn’t bring myself to ask. Couldn’t bring myself to appear concerned… because it shouldn’t matter. Isn’t this what I told him, and everyone, would happen eventually? What should happen? I know its right…I’m just not sure I’ve convinced myself of that yet.   
  
**May 17th, 2007 – New York**  
Listening to: The Dandy Warhols – [We Used to Be Friends](http://rapidshare.de/files/8293112/02_We_Used_to_Be_Friends.m4a.html)  
  
"If this wasn’t so completely fucked up, it would be laughable. I truly believe my entire family is out to make my life a living hell. I should just not show up and then, maybe, they would be pissed enough to write me off. God knows it works for him.   
  
Shit, it’s been well over a year and I’m quite certain he’s still as fucking beautiful as the last time I saw him. Michael’s let that slip more than once. Pittsburgh complicates my life so, maybe I should rethink this and stay in New York. This city, filled with millions of people actually has a calming effect on me. Ever since the horrible time I had last spring, things have gotten consistently better. It’s true what they say, time does heal old wounds and time does matter, you fucking asshole. Time and communication and just being in the same physical space does matter. All things you know way too little about. And now, on May 26th it appears we will once again occupy the same physical space.   
  
What was that prayer of Ted’s? Oh yeah, dear God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I can not change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know that Brian Kinney probably doesn’t give a shit.   
How did we come to this?


	2. Chapter 2

  
Author's notes:

This takes place about two years earlier than Chapter 1, right after Justin moved to New York City. 

* * *

**November 25, 2005; somewhere over Pennsylvania**  
Listening to: Train – [When I Look to the Sky](http://rapidshare.de/files/8293612/03_When_I_Look_to_the_Sky.m4a.html)  
  
  
Does it make any fucking sense that, if you fly from Toronto to Pittsburgh, you have to change in Detroit? At least I have my laptop with me and can get something accomplished.  
  
I’m on my way home from Thanksgiving at the munchers, with Debbie and Horvath, Mikey and Ben and Hunter all in attendance…almost more good cheer and fellowship than I can stand. Justin thrives on these Hallmark card occasions; I just get a headache.   
  
Lindsay must have known from the first that I was never going to crawl into a sleeping bag on the floor of one of her unused bedrooms in that big, old house they’ve rented - she gave in far too easily when I told her I had reservations at the Sheraton Town Centre. There were token protests, of course…”Oh, you didn’t have to do that, Brian…we’d have loved to have you stay here”…but I think secretly she was relieved. If she was relieved, I was overjoyed. I had to get out of there before I said or did something I’d have to apologize for later.   
  
Justin and I had a mostly silent ride from their house to the hotel. We checked in, and went to our room with as little fuss as possible. Even after we got up to our suite, he had the sense to continue to leave me alone. I sat down on the couch, leaned my head back, and shut my eyes. I could sense him looking down at me for a long moment, then he said, “Give me the key to the courtesy bar, and I’ll get you a drink.” I sat up a little and fished in my pocket. “Thanks.” I tossed it to him.   
  
I didn’t want to think about how I felt or why I felt that way. I didn’t want to think about how big Gus had gotten or the way J.R. cringed away from the strange man (me) or how relaxed Mel looked despite clerking in a law firm while studying for the bar. I didn’t want to think about Gus’ new friends who were only names to me or the way Lindsay talked about the gay couple down the street they swapped baby-sitting with or their stories of having to celebrate the Canadian Thanksgiving a month earlier so that Gus wouldn’t feel left out at school. I didn’t want to think about their new life in Toronto, a life farther apart from mine than just the miles that separated us. I knew this would happen when they left but knowing didn’t make experiencing it any easier. Just like knowing that Justin….  
  
He handed me a whiskey on ice. “No J.B.,” he said, and curled up on the other end of the couch. He had made himself a drink, too.   
  
I rolled my head on the back of the couch and looked at him. He was wearing a pair of vintage washed jeans and a long-sleeved, tight-fitting T-shirt…not the kind you get at Wal-Mart for $15.95, but the kind you get at Bergdorf-Goodman’s for $115.95…on sale…and his hair was a little shorter than the last time I saw him. All dressed up like that he looked at least sixteen, not 22.   
  
As I watched him, he took a long swallow from his glass, and then set it down on the end table with a click. He uncurled himself in a leisurely manner and stretched in my direction, until he was kissing me lightly, seriously, all along my cheekbone, then down to the corner of my mouth. I did him a favor, and turned my face up to give him access to my mouth. He responded with a gentle kiss, a couple of nips to my lower lip, and then a slow, deep kiss that brought dormant urges to life again. I raised my hand to hold his head steady so that I could deepen the kiss even more, but Justin slipped out of my grasp.  
  
He knelt on the floor between my legs, looked up at me, and smiled…not his ‘Sunshine’ smile but rather a slow-blooming upturn of his lips and a crinkling of the corners of his eyes. With his eyes still on mine, he unzipped me slowly, pulled my pants open, and leaned forward to kiss the base of my shaft. I shifted my body – my dick was getting firmer by the moment – and his smile widened into a grin. He sat back, pulled off my shoes, and flung them, one after the other, across the room. I raised my hips, and Justin jerked my pants down and off. They followed the shoes, but with considerably poorer velocity.   
  
Justin knelt again and scrutinized my dick, looking at it as intently as if he had never seen it before. My dick liked the scrutiny and responded accordingly. Justin shot me a quick smile when it jerked, and then he applied himself to the task at hand. His work ethic is commendable. When he does a job, he does it thoroughly.  
  
He weighed my balls in one hand, then pushed my legs further apart, and nibbled his way up my inner thigh until his nose was buried next to my balls. A quick but firm kiss to my balls, and then he repeated the nibbling on my left thigh until his nose was once again deep in my crotch. Next he nibbled his way up my shaft and began teasing the cap, licking, pressing the tip of that talented tongue into my slit, capturing the tip between his lips, then pressing his lips together gently. Fuck. Too gently. I ran my hand through his silky hair and pressed down on his head. Wrong move. He lifted his head and shook me a No.   
  
He stood up… _fuck…I must have really violated some damn rule of this game_ …pulled off his shoes, then his pants, underwear, and shirt, until he was standing in front of me, naked, beautiful, erect, and pulsing. _Damn. This is a really good game. I like it._ He retrieved his jeans from the floor, pulled out the lube and the condoms, then tugged me toward the bedroom. I didn’t need any persuasion.   
  
The king-sized bed had already been turned down, with the requisite pieces of chocolate on the pillows. While Justin threw back the blankets and top sheet, I got rid of my shirt, and then stretched out on the crisp cotton. He followed me onto the bed and pushed me down until I was flat on my back. He straddled my thighs, then lubed his fingers and knelt up. I think my breath may have hitched as I watched him slip first one, then two fingers into his asshole. His eyes closed and his lips parted as he worked his fingers, opening himself up.   
  
I scrabbled my fingers around on the bed until I came in contact with the condom and lube. When Justin was ready, I by God was going to be ready, too. Without taking my eyes off him, off his intent face, off his erect, throbbing cock, I rolled on the condom and lubed it. I laid one hand on each of his thighs and urged him forward so that my dick was between his legs, bumping into his balls. This time Justin’s breath hitched, and he grasped the base of my cock. Holding it steady, he lowered himself until the tip was touching his hole. His legs were shaking. I grabbed his hips, hard, and thrust up as he pushed down. We stared at each other as, for a long moment, his body resisted my invasion. Then, thank God, he shifted slightly and bore down, and I was in.  
  
We both froze, and I waited for his signal to continue, the sweat running down my neck. He panted several times, his eyes squeezed shut, then he spread his knees apart, twisted his ankles and shoved his feet under my buttocks, providing me with more leverage to fuck him. The action had forced me further into him, and now he began to move, riding me, setting a slow pace. I angled my thrust, and he gave a whining moan when I hit his prostate. He put his weight on one arm, stroking my flank with the other, and shifted so that every thrust hit his sweet spot.   
  
When I reached down between our bodies to jerk him off; he gasped as I tightened my hand around his dick. “God, Brian, please…now…harder…oh, God…” and his body was shuddering over me. His orgasm had the usual affect on me…all I need to make me come is the feel of his body tightening and spasming around me…I don’t think I could hold out against that even if I wanted to…and I came, hard and long.  
  
Afterwards, when we’d done a little clean up, I scooted back against the pillows and lit a cigarette. Justin curled into my side, his eyes shut, and I ran my fingers through his hair. “Feels good,” he mumbled.

  
What did he mean? The sex? Having his head rubbed? Falling asleep with our bodies touching? All of the above? “Missed you,” I said.  
  
“Yeah.” And he was quiet. I stubbed out my cigarette, stretched out, and covered us with the sheet. Reunion sex: highly recommended. Then there was a morning quickie to look forward to before he had to catch an 8:20 a.m. flight back to New York. He has some sort of opening – not his – that his agent says he should attend this evening. My flight isn’t until 5:10 this afternoon, so I’m going back and spend some time with Gus before I leave. Don’t want him forgetting his old man. 

  
The pilot says we are landing in Pittsburgh in ten minutes, so that’s all for now.   
  
**November, 25th, 2005 – New York**  
Listening to: Guster – [Lets Keep it Together](http://rapidshare.de/files/8293938/04_Let_s_Keep_it_Together.m4a.html)  
  
  
When I’m stoned, I can think of dozens of reasons why I need to be with Brian. But now, in my present day, clear minded reality, one overpowering feeling crowds all the others out. The constant ache, like a gunshot wound that never completely healed. The bullet entered my heart, ricocheted around my insides and exited through my gut, leaving a torn, jagged trail that only he can navigate and put back in order. Twenty two hours barely made a dent.   
  
This trip was a bonus, I know that. And I am grateful. We had not planned on seeing each other until Christmas, but the invitation from the girls arrived a few weeks ago followed by an airplane ticket from Brian. I told him it was an extravagant expenditure since I had to be back in New York the next day, but he said now was not the time to start arguing about how he spends his money. If I had wanted to do that I should have married him. He always did have a way with words and in this case a good point also.   
  
So, there I sat in the Toronto airport, impatiently awaiting the fashionably late arrival of flight 3722 from Pittsburgh. It’s been a little over six weeks since I left and the time has gone quickly. I moved in, as planned, with Daph’s friend Jared, who’s straight, pre-med, and seldom at home which works out fine for me. Work space is more important than a bedroom at this stage, so I paint in my allotted 8X10 foot visqueen-covered rectangle and sleep on the couch. 

I see Brian everywhere in New York. He is the thin, well toned pair of legs that exit the gym each morning as I walk to the corner newsstand to pick up a paper. He’s the tanned, veined hands of the man who sits and sips coffee outside Starbucks and he most definitely is the voice at the other end of the line that brings me to climax each evening in some corner of my apartment. God bless cell phones. But yesterday it was more than just his voice and the thought of that had my heart pounding and my stomach doing nervous little flip flops.  
  
Finally, he exited security looking just as I expected; handsome and elegant in wool and cashmere with his black leather jacket slung over one shoulder. I’m pretty sure he obsessed over that ensemble for some time on Wednesday evening, though he would never admit it. I smiled to think he attaches importance to such things when I would find him just as attractive in a trash bag. Watching him, I wanted to pounce; my dick was already twitching in anticipation. I resisted for a moment though as he furtively glanced about, trying to be nonchalant but failing miserably. I chuckled as I walked out of the shadows and into his line of sight. A grin spread across his face as I sped up, weaving around people and obstacles to once again be engulfed in his arms.   
  
Our first kiss was quick, both feeling the need to pull apart and look into each other’s eyes to be certain this was the real thing and not just another recurring dream. The second was a deep, satisfying exchange of lips and tongues. “You’re late”, I said, confirming the obvious. “Yeah, some fucked up shit with landing gear back in the Pitts”, he replied. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” We walked with his arm over my shoulder to the ground transportation exits. The one night stay necessitated only a carry on for each of us, but the time spent apart necessitated constant touch.   
  
Brian spotted a waiting limo and asked the driver how far it was to 1815 S Sycamore and was obviously pleased to hear the, “fifteen to twenty minutes” response. He slipped the gentleman a generous tip with the instruction, “make it twenty.” I took my seat first and saw Brian draw the curtain to block the drivers view of the backseat before the door was even shut. There was no way we would be sitting through Thanksgiving dinner without appropriate appetizers.   
  
Brian was toeing off his shoes as the limo pulled away from the curb, and our eyes were already devouring each other. I slipped from my seat directly behind the driver to kneel between his outstretched legs. He leaned forward and our lips met; his hand cradled my head and directed the intensity of our kiss. He tasted like the whiskey he drank on the flight mixed with cinnamon, and the smell of him calmed me. He is the smell of home, regardless of where I am when I inhale. This charming man overloads my senses. He never caresses with words, but the smell, touch, taste and sight of him fill me to capacity.   
  
I nibbled his chin and licked down his throat, stopping to lightly suck the soft fleshy indentation at its base. My hands smoothed down his sides and up under the cashmere, grasping skin as soft on my palms as the material now covering my hands. My fingers found his nipples and circled them while my tongue imitated the motion around his navel. Brian shifted in his seat, letting me feel the pressure that was building just below my chin. I sat back on my heels and smiled while he looked at me in frustration. Not one who ever feels the need to speak at these times, the ‘what the fuck?’ look on his face made me crack up. “I’m so glad we did this.” I told him. He rolled his eyes, grabbed my neck and reminded me he’d be much happier about the situation in a few minutes.   
  
Foreplay over, he undid his belt and lowered his pants, removing one leg completely to give me ample, unobstructed access to that perfect cock. My hand went first to his balls and I raised them gently so my tongue could trace the velvet underside. The faint hint of his scar is now undetectable to the untrained eye. I wonder if any of his tricks ever notice it and ask about it. I wonder if any of his tricks ever get this vantage point anymore.  
  
I sucked one ball into my mouth and gave it the attention it deserved before moving on to the other. God, this felt good. Even though I was not technically on the receiving end at that moment, he gave in ways that fully satisfied because I know he reserves things for only me. I’ve watched a hundred tricks pleasure Brian and they are never given the reciprocation that I am. I licked up his shaft and captured the head of his penis between my lips to the sound of his sigh. I came down his length and heard, “Justin…Justin”, as his hand tightened on the back of my neck. He gasped as I sucked my way back up and repeated the motion. His sac was tight so I loosened my grip and slid my hand under him, extending my index finger to the base of his crack and beyond. He shuddered a little when I first grazed his hole and then relaxed as I gently massaged it. When he pressed down, urging my finger inside, I knew it wasn’t going to be much longer until his release. This is another act, that I’m fairly certain he saves for me and I felt a tightening in my own balls at the thought.   
  
My mouth did not break contact with his cock when my finger entered him and he gasped when I pushed in completely. A second finger joined in on the next push and I heard my name coupled with that of a deity. His asshole contracted around my fingers as the back of my throat was bathed in his come. I swallowed each deposit as I snaked my free arm behind his back, in an attempt to pull him even closer to me as his orgasm subsided. We were still for a moment and I let his cock fall from my mouth as he slumped over and kissed the top of my head. “Your turn,” he whispered. 

  
I raised my head to meet his gaze as we felt the limo slow. A quick glance out the window confirmed we were in a residential neighborhood. “It’s okay,” I told him, “I can wait. I don’t want Gus’s first glimpse of you to be one with my dick in your mouth.” 

“Who says that’s what I had in mind, Sunshine?,” he asked, grinning. Brian pulled me up for another kiss as the car came to a rolling stop. The limo driver earned another twenty when he waited silently until Brian dressed and slid back the curtain before getting out.   
  
Mel and Lindz have rented a large, older home in a quaint, gay-friendly neighborhood. The Horvath-Novotny’s and the Novotny-Bruckner’s preceded our arrival, making things feel like a warm cocoon of family. This was the first year I had been away from my mom and Molly for the holiday. Mol was with dad and mom decided to take that opportunity to get away with Tucker. It was fine with me, but still felt a little odd, so I was thankful to have this other, mixed bag, extended family to melt into. Judging from the fact that Brian saw to it that he was permanently flanked on one side by Gus and me on the other, he felt the need also.   
  
Thanksgiving dinner was lovely. The girls outdid themselves, possibly in an attempt to show us they were right in making this move. They seemed happy and the kids are thriving. It was a joyful occasion, despite the longing I saw in both Brian’s and Michael’s eyes when they looked at their children. 

Brian made it clear, early on, where we would be spending the night amid a few protests. Honestly, I don’t think any of them wanted to hear what would be going on in our bed later. We took our leave relatively early in the evening with a promise of his return later today. The cab ride to the hotel was subdued with Brian deep in thought and me knowing better than to pry. I’ve learned the various reactions family gatherings can elicit from Brian, and it’s best just to let him process them in his own time.   
  
I made him a drink when we got to our room and then curled up on the couch. Eventually I made my way to his face, licking, kissing and trailing down his chest. Having my head in that close of proximity to his dick usually does the trick and this time was no different. We moved to the bedroom to make love and afterwards I fell asleep in his arms. Sometime in the night, I woke with a piss hard on and stumbled my way into the bathroom. Brian was snoring softly and I did my best to not disturb him upon my return.  
  
I entered the darkened room and felt my way blindly along the bottom edge of the bed. My hand grazed Brian’s foot and I used his leg as a guide to crawl in along my side and slip back under the covers. Lying on my right, he quickly enveloped me like a second skin. His breath at the back of my neck was a warm reminder of what I have missed. I could tell from its pace he was in that twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness as his hand began to trace tiny circles around my left nipple, hardening it along with other parts of my anatomy. My breath deepened. I let out a soft moan as his fingertips danced down my side and settled on my hip. When he flattened his palm and pulled me back against him hard, I knew my payback for the afternoon blow job was about to begin.   
  
He trailed a spit soaked finger down my crack and teased my hole with his right hand while his left cupped my balls and began its way up my shaft. I was fully erect and leaking. As he massaged my cock and hole, his tongue worked its way down my back and replaced his finger in my ass. Yet another act I no longer have to share with a nameless trick. I know this because he let it slip during one of our late night phone sex sessions. “I’m tonguing your ass Justin…only you…you’ve ruined me.” I came with that little announcement and now I was seconds away from doing it again. He flipped me just in time to devour my cock and its contents. “I love you”, I told him in a staggered, orgasmic whisper. The sigh he gave out tickled the top of my dick and let me know he heard. I smiled, secure in the knowledge that the feeling is reciprocated. 

  
Morning came all too soon and he smugly acted as though he had no recollection of our nocturnal activities. I woke to the sound of the shower followed in short order by the cold rush of covers being thrown off my body. "Rise and shi..., oh, I see you're already halfway there", Brian said as he focused on my cock. "Get your ass in the shower, we don't have a lot of time."   
  
The water felt as comforting as the bed I had just emerged from but nothing could compare to the joy of starting my day making love to him once again. Fuck 8:20 AM flights to New York and day after Thanksgiving openings that young up-and-coming artists have to attend. All I wanted to do was stay with him, attach myself to his side and remain there until my skin fused to his. Eventually I would melt into him. Justin Taylor would cease to exist anywhere but inside of Brian Kinney. There I would thrive, content to chase away his thoughts of self doubt and, in return, infuse him with a certainty that he is worthy of loving and being loved. I fear it is the only way my seemingly insatiable thirst for him could ever be quenched. 

  
The walls of this apartment are cold and unwelcoming to me now and the calendar is not my friend. Twenty eight more fuckless nights until we're together again. God, make it go fast.  



	3. Chapter 3

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

Fucking prick. I hate him and I love him. Everything was just fine and then he had to turn it to shit.   
  
Christmas Eve at Deb's was great. Brian picked me up at the airport earlier in the afternoon after making the obligatory visit to his mother’s for brunch with his sister and her evil spawn. I know I will never elicit any emotion except disgust from those people so being the reason Brian would give to excuse himself from their little holiday get-together gave me a selfish, smug, feeling of satisfaction in this season of love and good will. But I was also nervous as to what damage they would have inflicted and wondered how long it would take me to repair it this time.   
  
I was pleasantly surprised when he greeted me with a smile and a hug so tight you would have thought Joanie had told him she was a lesbian. His good mood carried over into the evening, probably because Gus was attached to some part of his body throughout. Deb was in her glory with all of her children under one roof. Everyone, and I mean everyone, was there, including my mom, Molly and Tucker. That’s still weird, but if she can get used to the distinct possibility of having two sons-in-law someday, I guess I might be able to deal with a step-father who is three years older than me. It wasn’t what either of us bargained for, but that’s just the way life is sometimes.  
  
It was a late night, and Brian and I were both inebriated enough by the end of it to necessitate a taxi ride back to the loft. I’m sure we had sex, or at least tried to have sex, but I don’t remember it. That’s bad. We woke late yesterday morning, and he and I celebrated our own private Christmas here. He had asked me weeks ago what I wanted, and I told him, “Your word”: a promise that we would see each other at least once a month for the next year. Instead, I got a laptop, a palm pilot and fucked within inches of my life several times which I, and my ass, can still recall in great detail.   
  
I know that I have no reason to complain, but I feel like a ten-year-old kid who only asked for his parents to stop fighting and got handed an XBOX 360 wrapped in divorce papers. Thankfully, I waited until this morning to ask him about my previous request. I was basically told, “No can do.” I must EARN that privilege and according to him, I’m not doing a very good job at it. Merry Fucking Christmas.  
  
Now I know I’ve been in New York for three months, but really, what did he expect? Was someone going to have a gallery built for me on my arrival? He is not my goddamn father and he’s not paying my way anymore, but that’s just what it felt like after my little lecture. I stormed out and then realized I had no fucking place to go. As usual, I ended up where all homeless queers eventually land…the diner. I prayed he wouldn’t stop in before he went to work. I knew I would have to put on a show for Deb or all of gay Pittsburgh would know Brian and I had a fight 48 hours after I arrived home. She wasn’t surprised to see me though since she is all too familiar with the usual contents of Brian’s refrigerator. Who’d have thought that desolate thing would someday be my saving grace? She saw to it that my bacon, eggs and pancakes were on the grill before I could sit down, no questions asked.  
  
I was about to take a seat at the counter when I noticed Colin Richards from PIFA sitting alone in one of the booths. He nodded and motioned for me to join him. Colin’s a good boy. He stuck with the program and played by the rules, which aggravated me further and made me wonder if I was wrong to take the route I did. He’s only got a year left and he told me about some fellowships he has applied for. One of them requires more practical work experience than he has, and he thought I might be interested in taking a look at it. Yeah, right. Who’s gonna fund the drop-out assistant art director of a failed, gay, super-hero movie and an illustrator of a now-defunct comic book who can’t sell his abstract art on a New York street corner? I took the application to be nice, and now it’s lying around here somewhere.   
  
Fuck, I’m a loser. Maybe Brian is right. What the hell do I think I’m doing? I’ll tell you what. I’m sitting here, back at the loft, getting drunk all by myself and that’s never a good thing. I hope he comes home soon. Jesus, I hope he comes home at all. I’m sorry and I’m confused and I’m horny. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to fuck him.  



	4. Chapter 4

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**Monday, 26 December 2005, 11PM – The Loft  
Listening to: Switchfoot – ** [Dare You to Move](http://rapidshare.de/files/8294629/06_Dare_You_to_Move.m4a.html) **, on my ipod.**

Can’t sleep, it’s been a hell of a day. Doesn’t seem to have affected him however. Maybe he’s just exhausted. Maybe it’s the one too many nightcaps. Maybe it’s just dealing with me.

I woke up this morning in a warm tangle of limbs and bodies. God, waking up with Justin felt good. Felt right. Felt complete.

He opened his eyes, and I smiled at him with what I suspect was a warm, goofy sort of smile. The way he laughed back at me confirmed it. I ran one hand down his back and cupped his cheek. “Your ass is cold,” I said. “It must have been sticking out of the covers.”

“So…warm me up.” He nuzzled my neck.

"Ummm. I want you," I paused for a moment, then spat out the words, "inside me."

I am a top, but every top - no matter how dedicated - wants to bottom once in a while. Right now I wanted him to fill me, to take me. When it comes to bottoming, I want Justin, and only Justin, to be my top. Someone who will all too soon be returning to New York City and God knows how long it will be before I see him again.

I put my hand under his chin and tilted his mouth toward mine. I kissed him, dominating, thrusting my tongue into his mouth, pressing my penis into his hipbone. He leaned into me and let me lead for a little, knowing that this was a last ditch Declaration of Independence, before he took control. Then his hand was on my cheek, warm and comforting, and he pulled out of the kiss. He gave me a gentle push, and I stretched out. I felt exposed, momentarily, but he was next to me quickly, half-covering me, stroking my flank reassuringly.

He looked at me seriously. "Brian," he said, "do you remember what I asked for this Christmas?”

_Yeah_. I didn’t answer. He kissed up my jaw line and spoke softly into my left ear.

"I’m serious – your gifts were great, but I don’t really care about stuff – I care about seeing you. Just once a month, twelve times a year. Is that too much to ask?”

_Yes, it is. And this is a helluva time to have this conversation._

"Promise me you will…and I want you to come to see me some of the times."  
I turned my head and stared at him blankly, our noses nearly touching each other’s on the shared pillow.

"Come back with me and celebrate New Year's Eve. Let's start 2006 together."

I angled myself up on my left elbow in order to put some space between us. "Not possible," I said.

"Why not?” he pleaded in a wheedling voice. “What do you have planned? Can't you get out of it?"

"No plans. But I'm not going to New York. Not for New Year’s Eve, not for Valentine’s Day, not for fucking President’s Day."

"What the hell have you got against seeing me in New York? Why does it always have to be here...or in Toronto...or anywhere fucking else but New York?"

I looked at him for a long moment. He was flushed and his ears were turning red, a sure sign that he was losing his temper...if the rough tone of his voice hadn't already made that clear.

Considering what I had hoped was about to happen, I hadn’t planned to get into this, but I continued, "Why should I visit you, Justin? What the fuck have you accomplished since you got there?"

"What are you talking about? I've found studio space, I've started making sketches...."

"Wonderful. You've been there...what?...a good three months? and you're telling me you're all moved in. How many works have you finished? Have you made any contacts - gallery owners, successful artists...."

"You know I got an agent...."

"Not that Damian Cross seems to be doing a God damn thing."

Justin was smoldering now, his ears bright red. I went in for the kill. "This is going to end up like every other abortive thing you've undertaken. You put in two years at PIFA...but did you finish and get your degree? No. You went to Lotusland...thanks to Mikey's ideas and initiative, not yours...but did you hustle around, make contacts, get yourself in a position to get work on another project when "Rage" folded? This is going to be a repetition of PIFA and L.A. - something will bring it to an end - at least in your mind - and you'll be left with nothing to show for it."

Justin was beyond smoldering and into furious, his body quivering with anger. He rolled over and got off the bed.

“Running away from the argument?” I kept my voice level.

“Is there any fucking point in discussing this?” He was starting to get dressed. “Do I have a chance in hell of getting you to come see me?”

“Sure you do. Produce something worth seeing, meet some useful people, maybe even get a couple of pictures in a show, and I’ll be right there.”

“Sure you will. I’ll believe it when I see it.” He grabbed his jacket and stomped out without another word. I figured he was on his way to Daphne’s, and I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the beginning of the end.

I stopped at work and put in a couple of quiet, uninterrupted, productive hours, then I picked up Gus and we went to a movie. When I dropped him off at Debbie’s – can you believe all four of them are squeezing into that tiny house with Debbie, Carl, and Emmett? – she persuaded me to stay for dinner. I had to grumble and groan first but I was happy to oblige. I’d eat her marinara sauce every day for the privilege of watching Gus chow down on chicken fingers and french fries, then have the opportunity to read him his story and get him settled for the night on an inflatable mattress in Mikey’s old room.

 

As soon as I walked into the loft, I could smell trouble. Trouble was sitting on the couch, staring at some old movie, and drinking orange juice. If Justin is drinking orange juice at 8:55 at night, believe me, that juice has been diluted with something stronger. I banged the door shut harder than usual to make sure he knew I was home.

He swiveled on the couch and glared at me. Apparently he was still angry. Good. Perhaps I got through to him. God knows it isn’t easy. For a bright guy, he can be pretty thick.

_Thick. And not just thick mentally, either_. “Hello to you, too,” I said. “I hope getting drunk isn’t the only thing you accomplished today, besides demonstrating once again your inability to finish what you start.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I made a suggestion this morning but apparently you had urgent business elsewhere that was more important than putting your dick up my ass.”

His eyes widened, then narrowed to a hard stare. “You still want me…?”

“I can take it.”

“You’re sure?” I nodded, a little warily, and watched him carefully as he stood up. He did so with his usual fine coordination, so he wasn’t very drunk. That was a relief. He jerked his shirt off over his head, shoved off his pants and socks, and walked toward me, stark naked and already stiffening.

I had been mirroring his actions, but I stopped undressing to watch him stalk across the floor. As soon as he got close, he leaned over and closed his teeth over my nipple. I sucked in my breath, anticipating pain. He loosened his grip and rolled the nipple with his tongue, then nipped it, hard. I yelped.

“Sure?” he asked.

I nodded. He pushed my pants down roughly, and I toed them off. As soon as I was naked, I moved quickly to the bed. This encounter, which I suspected would be rough, wasn’t going to take place on the floor. I stripped off the duvet and made myself comfortable, lying on my back with my head propped up on the pillows. I waited to see what his next move would be.

He knelt at the bottom of the bed and yanked on my ankles, pulling me off the pillows. My head hit the mattress with a thunk. He grabbed two pillows from the head of the bed and jammed them under my hips. The condom and lube were still in the same place. He reached across me to grab both and a single drop of pre-come hit my belly. I wiped it up with one finger, then stuck my finger in my mouth and sucked it off.

Justin had paused to watch. His eyes dilated, and he said, “Shit.” I hardened in response.

He moved up, between my legs, pushing them apart. I bent my knees and planted my feet on the bed. I fought the urge to clench my hands into fists and pressed them into the mattress instead. Justin lubed his fingers and pushed one into my anus. One is easy; two, I quickly remembered, is less so. Justin looked at me, his face serious, and scissored his fingers. I smiled back and hoped the tooth-gritting didn’t show. Then he pushed in a third finger, with difficulty, and I moved one arm up over my face and tucked my head into the crook of my elbow.

“Are you sure you want this, Brian?”

_Fuck, he sounds concerned._ And right then I needed what only Justin could give me: something to distract me from all the up-coming separations. I dropped my arm and gave him the most contemptuous look I could muster, given my position. “What part of my answer didn’t you understand the last two times you asked? Or maybe you’re the one with the problem? Maybe you’re afraid to tackle a man’s job?”

I know, I know…that’s such a corny speech! It only worked because Justin had been drinking, and his critical faculties were impaired. He scowled at me and pushed hard. I grunted, arched my back, and pushed back against the mattress with both my hands and feet. I closed my eyes as he stretched me vigorously. If he was still watching my face, I didn’t want to know. Then his hand was gone, and he was replacing it with his dick. He gave a strong, steady push past my sphincter, and I grunted again. As he pulled out and pushed in again, I straightened out my legs and curled them around his.

A second and a third push, and Justin found my prostate. Jesus. I made a strange noise and threw my head back, arching into him, clenching my sphincter. Intellectually, I believe that to experience bottoming at its best, I should give up control and go where my top leads. My actual reaction, however, is to take control, using every dirty trick I can think of to set the pace and make that pace blazingly fast. I’m aware of the irony in asking to bottom, then wanting to get fucked as quickly as possible, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to rush the encounter.

Experience has made Justin all too aware of my “bossy bottom” tendencies. He has his ways of countering my tricks, and the bastard used every one to prolong the damn fuck. Finally, when I was almost ready to beg…God forbid…I felt his hand on my dick, jerking me off none too gently. I didn’t care; I just wanted to come now. As soon as he touched me, my whole body clenched and the world contracted to my dick…and his dick in me. I came with a shattering intensity that blanked out everything but the shuddering of Justin’s body as my orgasm triggered his.

We untangled ourselves, and I rolled over. Soon Justin’s little snuffles were a sure sign that he was deeply asleep. The replay of this morning’s conversation kept running through my head. I got up, walked to the kitchen and grabbed my own supply of nightcaps. I looked. There, on my counter was an application for a fellowship program in Rome. What the fuck? Is this another place for you to run to, Justin, to avoid what you have started in New York? Rome, for God’s sake. Not even on the same continent. That shouldn’t matter, if the fellowship is what’s right for him, but I wish to hell he’d finish one thing before racing off to tackle something else. Just finish something, Justin, for once in your goddamn life.

The bottle’s considerably less full at the moment, and it’s starting to work its magic. Soon I’ll be able to crawl in beside his warm body and sleep…or pass out. And tomorrow my hang-over will help me act like I don’t care if I’ve hurt his feelings. It will help me keep a poker face when he tells me he wants to leave me even further behind. And if the hang-over doesn’t, well, there’s another bottle where this one came from....


	5. Chapter 5

  
Author's notes:

* * *

 

 

**February 10th, 2006**  
Listening to: Third Eye Blind - [Anything](http://rapidshare.de/files/8295230/07_Anything.m4a.html)  
  
I hate to say it but Simon Caswell isn’t a cunt, and Brian Kinney is usually right. It’s been awhile and I guess if I am going to keep a journal, I really should write more than once every other month or so. However, I can’t imagine how boring my life would have to get for me to want to look back on these days and read, “Today I got up, worked on my art, ate something, jacked off talking to Brian and fell asleep.” I’d be lying to myself if I glorified it more than that. New York, New York, may as well be Fargo, North Dakota, for as much as I get out. Anyway, after my enlightening Christmas trip back home, I have done little except paint and fill out that goddamn fellowship application. Christ, that was a bitch. I wanted to have all my bases covered though and if I couldn’t get a show, I might have been able to entice Brian to Milan for the spring collection.   
  
He tried his best to convince me that what I heard wasn’t what he said, but I know better. He told me a long time ago that accomplishment is where he places value and, harsh or not, he was right. What the hell was I doing here except spinning my wheels? I had a room full of half-finished art, little ambition to complete it, and no avenue to promote or get it sold if I did. So shortly after my return, I swallowed my pride and contacted Simon. He remembered me and seemed genuinely pleased to have received my call. I invited him to brunch, making it clear I needed to discuss business.   
  
Late on a crisp, clear, January morning, we sat at Sarabeth’s, between 5th and 6th, and looked out over Central Park. On those rare occasions that I do see more than my apartment walls or the block and a half between them and Starbucks, I am in awe of this city, and I wonder why Brian didn’t make this move before me. What has held him in Pittsburgh? It’s fairly obvious it sure as hell wasn’t me. His family certainly has no ties on him, and now, with Gus in Canada, he couldn’t use his son as an excuse either. All I can come up with are those old insecurities of his.   
  
But on that day I had to force my thoughts away from Brian and on to the dreadful task of promoting myself. I picked, in a very Kinneyesque manner, at the fabulous, high-calorie meal of apricot almond pancakes, baked eggs in a basil cheese sauce, and apple-wood smoked bacon even though I would have preferred to devour it completely. Instead, I sipped strong coffee and mimosas while I did my best to present Mr. Justin Taylor, confident artist extraordinaire. I non-literally kissed Mr. Caswell’s ass, thanked him profusely for the article he had written about me and picked his brain to help determine what galleries might present my art in the best possible light.   
  
He told me what I did not want to hear. That even with the article, which is often times forgotten as soon as the next issue hits the street, a young artist usually has to know the owner of a gallery or be recommended by the right person. In addition, if the gallery even accepts unsolicited work, it needs to match, but not compete, with the other items they are showing.   
  
Up until that point, my Brian Kinney imitation had been serving me well, but my poker face is no match for his, and the disappointment on it must have bled through. Simon smiled as he reached across the table, patted my hand and lowered his voice. “You’ve been to Hollywood, Justin. The proverbial casting couch works in this business, too. It’s amazing how quickly your art can be on a gallery’s walls if the owner’s dick has been in your ass. I can think of several who would love to meet you. Are you interested?”   
  
Oh Jesus, the thought of it made me shudder with visions of Sapperstein. I mean, I’m not a prude or anything, but I really want to do this right. I’d like my art to speak for itself without any help from my ass, thank you. I told him I was not willing to consider that at this time. We made polite conversation for a few more moments, exchanged cards and I picked up the tab in an effort to shore up my rapidly crumbling self-confidence. He wished me luck and promised to call if anything came up. Right. If I'd had a dollar to spare, I would have bought a lottery ticket on the way home because my chances were just as good at winning that...or so I thought, until the phone rang a couple of weeks later.  
  
“Justin, it's Simon Caswell. Have you found a gallery yet?”  
  
“Um…Hi, no.” _That was lame._  
  
“Are you free tomorrow afternoon at two?”  
  
“I can be.”  
  
“I just had lunch with Jefferson Stace, have you heard of him?”  
  
“Yes.” _I lied._  
  
“Well then, you know he’s a fairly successful artist.”   
  
_Thank you. This guy could read me like a book._ He continued, “He and some of his friends have invested wisely over the years, and they’ve always had this dream. They’ve all been through what you’re dealing with now, and they swore if they ever had the means, they would lease a place that showcased new talent. Last year they found the means. Have you been to the Regent Gallery in SoHo?”  
  
“No.” _I told the truth this time._  
  
“Well, you will be tomorrow. Get copies of your best stuff on a disk and polish up your resume. I know its short notice but one of the guys on their March ticket dropped out. Nervous breakdown or something. His loss could be your gain.”  
  
“Okay.” _Damn, I’m a brilliant conversationalist._ “W-W-What’s the address?”  
  
“402 West Broadway, got it?”  
  
“Yeah…and Simon?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“It’s what I do. Don’t make a liar out of me.”  
  
“I won’t, bye”  
  
My heart seemed to stop with the click of the phone, and then it started up again with a vengeance, feeling as if it was going to beat out of my chest. Fuck, I had a lot to do in a day. Seems like it’s either feast or famine in this business and let me tell you, famine sucks. I wasn’t about to screw this up. Some of my portfolio was already on a disk, but I had to figure out which of the new pieces would mesh best, photograph and download them, and burn another one.   
  
Thank you, Brian, for insisting on helping me develop a top-notch resume before I left. It would do nicely and so would the clothes that you picked out after the decision to move was made.   
  
I arrived at the gallery a few minutes early the next day. Actually I arrived about two hours early just to make sure I could find the place and then sat at a nearby coffee shop for the interminably long wait. I couldn’t eat, I could barely drink just thinking about the fact that this was my chance not only to get my work in front of a New York audience, but also to prove myself to Brian and – finally - be re-united with him.   
  
Jefferson Stace was a handsome, rugged-looking, Marlboro type man. His salt and pepper hair, piercing gray-blue eyes, and tanned, lined face gave him that cowboy allure. He was as tall as Brian but a bit stockier. Still in excellent shape for a man I presume is in his mid-fifties. He welcomed me with a firm handshake and a motion to follow him to his office.   
  
The gallery was not large, but with rents what they are in New York, quite impressive for a small group of artists to have put together. It consists of three stories of exposed brick with just enough windows to shed natural light but not detract from the art. An old iron staircase, much like a fire escape, takes patrons up and down along the right side wall, in addition to an industrial elevator toward the back where his office was located.   
  
Seated across from his desk, I felt like I had once before. That time I was at Vangard Advertising Agency however and seated across from a far less amiable reviewer. We made small talk, and then he asked to see my work. He was silent for a long time as he scrolled through the disc, and I was certain, had he looked at me, he would have seen my heart pounding in my throat. Finally he glanced over his computer screen and smiled. “Can you get at least 15 pieces to me by the middle of March?” I nodded affirmatively, and it was a done deal. Ten percent of any profit goes to my agent, who basically did nothing to make this happen, but whom I must have to play the game. Another twenty percent to the gallery, and pricing will be at their discretion. I was in no position to negotiate and readily agreed. We shook on it and I became the third person on the March ticket. My paintings will take up residence beside the photographs and sculptures of two other new artists on the evening of March 18th.   
  
So, dear Brian, Happy Valentines Day. This is what you were waiting for, right? I’ve got another little present I’d like to share with him also. He was the last man I was with, nearly seven weeks ago. The show is in another five. I’ve been tested, I’m clean, and I know that as long as my phone works I can hold out. If he would do the same, we could really make it a night to remember.  



	6. Chapter 6

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**February 15th, 2006**  
Listening to: The Starting Line – [Lasting Impression](http://rapidshare.de/files/8295427/08_Lasting_Impression.m4a.html)

Huh. Justin has a show. Can I make it? Would I walk over broken glass to be there? Fuck, yes.

He’s got so much talent, such God-given gifts…if only he had the drive to match it. I’m sure he believes that I enjoy giving him a kick in the pants, but that old parental maxim fits here: “It hurts me more than it hurts you.” Sure, I’d love to wrap him in a cocoon, safe from all the buffets of the world, but that way lies disaster. He’d break out of his chrysalis one day and realize he’s 29 or 30 or even older, without one damn thing to point to with pride. Any relationship we had would be in the toilet then.

The only possible fly-in-the-ointment is that I have to be in San Francisco on the 16th. Shouldn’t be a problem – I have an all-day meeting with Priority Presentations and Dan Erskine of DreECo – and I’ll need to take Dan out to dinner, etc., afterwards, but no matter how late the etc. runs, I can be on a plane early on Friday the 17th so that I’m there in plenty of time to fuck Justin out of any pre-show jitters. (No sacrifice on my part is too great in the support of his art.) I’ve known from the first that Justin has talent. It’s time that it’s recognized. I want to bask in his glow, to shine in his reflected glory. I will. On March 18th.  



	7. Chapter 7

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**March 18th, 2 PM – New York  
Listening to: Queen – **[Don’t Stop Me Now](http://rapidshare.de/files/8439605/09_Don_t_Stop_Me_Now.m4a.html)  
  
I suck at keeping a journal. I was bound and determined to do this because I know that, regardless of what happens, this is a significant period in my life that I want recorded. However, I am having an incredibly difficult time getting my thoughts down on paper in a consistent and coherent manner.   
  
Today is no different. As a matter of fact, it is probably worse. I am writing to keep myself from bouncing off of the walls; the now unadorned walls that is, of my makeshift studio. My paintings left a few days ago, packaged carefully and their fate placed into the hands of another far less interested party. I think this must be what a parent feels like sending their first born off to school. Here is my creation that I love, it is the best part of me, please recognize that and handle them with the care they deserve. Please. I can do nothing else at this point to change them. They must stand on their own merit, and I pray they will make me proud.   
  
According to the figures Jackson quoted me, I could net nearly ten thousand dollars from this show IF every piece sells. Right. What are the chances of that happening? I will be satisfied if I sell three and overjoyed if half of them find new homes. That, along with a future commission or two, would enable me to start shopping for my own place. I'm assuming if I can manage to become established, Brian won’t be so hesitant to visit in the future and the two of us will actually have one.   
  
For now, the time has come to move ahead and nothing, barring the crash of flight 271, is going to put a damper on this night. I spoke to Brian a little while ago. He called from the San Francisco airport, just prior to boarding the plane that will deposit him here at 5:15. I was very nervous about the fact that his meetings took a day longer than he had originally planned but, as usual, he has everything under control. He said I really didn't want him around here a day ahead of time anyway because he seems to get more worked up about these things than I do.   
  
I will be at the gallery when he lands so he will take a cab to the hotel and be at the show by 8 at the latest. He said he will be holding back and watching all the rich old queens flirt with me. His theory is that whoever purchases the most expensive piece will be hoping for a piece of the artist as well when the show is over. Once the sales are final, he plans on sweeping in and showing them all that he has what they never will. That would be the optimum scenario. The more likely one is that I will be keeping an eye on him getting increasingly more inebriated and angry at the lack of sold tags on Mr. Taylor's paintings. I'm hoping he can't do too much damage in an hour.   
  
Either way, when it is over, he will be here to shore up my confidence or celebrate my success, and that's what really matters. Yes, I am doing what I love but, as sappy as it sounds, I am doing it for the one I love also. Honestly, I could be just as happy if this show was being held in Pittsburgh, but I want to make him proud, be the best I can be for him and me. I don't ever want Brian to look at me and think that I sacrificed any portion of my career because of him. Rather, I will show him that I can play in the big league but prefer to play in his ballpark, wherever that may be.  
  
  
********************************************************************************************  
  
  
 **18 March 2006 – 9:50 a.m. – San Francisco**  
Listening to: Sum 41 - [88](http://rapidshare.de/files/8439860/10_88.m4a.html)  
  
We boarded right on time, and the doors should be closing any minute now. I’m finally on my way to New York City and Justin, despite the best efforts of Dan Erskine and Priority Productions. Talk about miscommunication! I should have filmed their interactions. I could have used the result as a training guide in how not to negotiate. Anyway, I think PP is now on track to put together a 15-minute multi-media presentation that DreECo will be happy to use at trade shows. As the man-in-the-middle of this brou-ha-ha, I now know more than I care to about pneumatic and hydraulic machine parts. I am extremely happy to be on my way to JFK with some remnants of my sanity intact.  
  
10:15 a.m. The plane hasn’t moved yet. I have a two-hour layover at O’Hare, so I don’t think I need to call Justin. I’d just alarm him.  
  
10:29 a.m. The captain just announced that a beefed-up security check has been completed, and all electronic devices must be turned off. I’m glad I decided not to call Justin. Even if it takes another half hour before we’re in the air – unlikely! – I’ll still have 47 minutes to make my connection.  
  
 _11:15 a.m. Goddamn, having to write this using pencil and paper is just one more fucking thing to aggravate me. Almost one hour since they started up the engines, and we appear to be about 20 feet away from the airway. I can still see the damn thing. Apparently while we blew the departure time with the security check, four other Liberty Airlines planes using the same terminal blocked us in. So we aren’t going anywhere yet. Can I say that I am pissed? Not to mention snake-bit._  
  
11:35 a.m. Take off is almost an hour late. We’re now sitting on the runway, waiting our turn to take off. According the announcement the captain just made, we’ll be here for some indefinite time. There are twelve planes in front of us, San Francisco’s famous fog has descended, and I, Brian Kinney, am indeed fucked. If only. I’d rather take it up the ass than sit here, helpless, antsy, and getting angrier by the minute.  
  
11:57 a.m. Still sitting. I just asked the stewardess where we are in line, and she said there are three planes still ahead of us. I don’t know why the fuck I even asked. My two-hour cushion at O’Hare went down the toilet ten minutes ago. FUCK. I can’t even call Justin. I am so screwed. Screwed to the wall, standing, to quote the lovely Ms. Marcus.  
  
12:20 p.m. Airborne. Estimated arrival time: 6:58 p.m. Due to a favorable tail wind, we are expected to make up twenty minutes. Down two-and-a-half hours, up twenty fucking minutes. Right. I had planned on fucking Justin until his eyes rolled back in his head tonight, then jumping on a plane early tomorrow morning, and making a flying trip to Pittsburgh. I promised Dan and PP that my staff would have some text and pictures to them by the close of business on Monday. Mike can coordinate that, but I need to be sure he knows exactly what I’m looking for and that I know he can pull it together in time. If not, I want to be the one to break it to Dan and the guys at PP.   
  
The stewardess is asking all Business Class passengers if they need new flights out of O’Hare. No way I can be at Justin’s show tonight. It’s a four-hour flight to JFK and another hour taxi ride from the airport to the art gallery. The earliest I can be there will be around midnight. I’ll call him as soon as I’m allowed to use my cell phone, and tell him I’ll be there as soon as possible on Sunday…no later than 7:00 p.m., hopefully earlier. In the meantime, I’ll have them book me a flight to Pittsburgh, and I’ll call Mike and tell him to be in the office by 7:00 a.m. The man’s always telling me what an early riser he is, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Won’t be a problem or I’ll know the reason why.  
  
7:25 p.m. I’m waiting for my flight to Pittsburgh, which is supposed to board in another 15 minutes. I’ve booked another flight from Pittsburgh to JFK for 4:32 p.m. tomorrow. Now if only I could get in touch with that fucking Justin. That’s probably what he’s doing: fucking. That’s what I’d be doing, if I were Justin…and if I cared about being stood up on one of the most important days of my life. If I didn’t care, I’d be even more likely to be fucking. Either way, the missing boyfriend would be the last thing on my mind. I’m not going to leave him a message now and have his phone go off in the middle of his show; I’ll call him when I get home. Jesus, I wanted to be there to celebrate…or comfort him if it wasn’t a success. But it will be. It is. Right now, he’s smiling and greeting people and taking his first steps as an artist. An artist who is also the best homosexual he can be. 

 Fuck.  



	8. Chapter 8

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**March 19th, 2005 - 2:00 AM - Pittsburgh  
Listening to: Weezer – **[Knock Down Drag Out](http://rapidshare.de/files/8440002/11_Knock_Down_Drag_Out.m4a.html)  
  
  
Trevor: Hello.  
  
Brian: Justin? Is that you?  
  
Trevor: No. This is Trevor Conley.   
  
Brian: Excuse me. I must have the wrong number.  
  
Trevor: Were you calling Justin Taylor?  
  
Brian: Yes.  
  
Trevor: Fuck. Damn. I must have picked up his phone by mistake. I’m sorry. We have the same phones.  
  
Brian: I’m sorry, I don’t give a fuck. Is Justin there?  
  
Trevor: He’s taking a shower. Can I take a message? Have him call you back?  
  
Brian: He can call me back. He knows my number.  
  
Trevor: Who shall I say called?  
  
Brian: Tell him Brian called.  
  
Trevor: O.K. He’ll be glad to hear from you. He’s been worried.  
  
Brian: *click*  
  
  
 **March 20, 2006 – New York**  
Listening to: Simple Plan – [Don’t Wanna Think About You](http://rapidshare.de/files/8440225/12_Don_t_Wanna_Think_About_You.m4a.html)  
  
What a difference 48 hours can make. I am looking at my last journal entry in disbelief. What the fuck was I thinking? Be the best I can be for HIM…play in HIS ballpark. Where the fuck is his ballpark? Apparently anywhere I’m not. How blind could I have been? I have so much to write but I hardly know where to begin.   
  
It kills me to think about the show, but I have to force myself to put this into words while it’s still fresh in my memory. The opening itself was uneventful. I’ve learned how to meet, greet, and talk about my art, and that’s all I had to do. That, and watch the time. Eight o’clock came and went and so did eight-thirty, and then nine, without any trace of Brian. I called him repeatedly but all I ever got was his voice mail. My feelings ran the gamut of emotions: fear, dread, disappointment, sorrow, anger, confusion and exasperation as I pictured every possible scenario.   
  
I knew he had to be on the plane because he would have called had they not taken off. Where the hell was he? I called the loft and actually hoped he would pick up just so I knew he was safe. But, like his cell, all I got was his recording. I called the hotel and he had not checked in. Next I tried Michael and as far as he knew, Brian was in New York. I was about to lose it. I couldn’t spend the time that I needed to be socializing frantically dialing everyone I could think of who might know where he was. One of the waiters working for the gallery’s catering service noticed. He asked if he could be of assistance and must have thought I was a madman when I thrust my phone at him and pleaded, "Yes! Please call Liberty Airlines and ask if they had any plane crashes today." No doubt used to working with crazed artists, he obliged without the bat of an eye and reported back to me that, “No sir, as far as the Liberty representative knew, all of their flights had taken off and landed safely.”   
  
I thanked him then and again when he brought me a double whiskey on the rocks without having to ask for it. I found out his name was Trevor. After my second drink I found out this was his moonlighting job: a way to pay the bills until Broadway discovered his amazing talent. Welcome to the club, I thought, different form, but art nonetheless. Considering my previous request, Trevor asked if I had a relative or someone on a flight that I was concerned about. I told him, "Yeah, someone," and he said if that ‘someone’ didn't show up I was welcome to join him for a drink after the show at a little bar down the street. I thanked him for the umpteenth time that evening and tried to put the idea out of my mind for the duration of the show.   
  
Sales went well. When the last patron left, all but three of my pieces were sold. Two days ago, had someone told me I would have been that successful I would have been ecstatic. But at that moment, it really didn’t matter. I smiled as Jefferson congratulated me and asked for additional pieces. I promised to have them to him in a couple of weeks and signed all of the necessary paperwork. I should have been on cloud nine, yet all I could think of was drowning my sorrows in a bottle and my dick in some nameless trick. That’s when I recalled Trevor’s invitation. Maybe the trick didn’t need to be nameless after all.   
  
The night air was cold when I left the gallery, and a freezing drizzle was starting to come down. I didn’t give a shit; it actually felt kind of good. It was still early, barely eleven o’clock when I checked my cell phone for messages. None and the battery was nearly dead. I turned it off to conserve what was left just in case I needed it to call for a cab later and turned in the direction of the bar Trevor had described.   
  
I was hoping for a Babylon but what I got was a Woody’s. Fuck, I wasn’t even sure if ‘Jake’s’ was a gay bar. But, I was fairly certain Trevor was, so I figured, what the hell. I entered to a welcome sight; all men. Yup, Trevor and I had each other pegged. I didn’t see him so I took a seat at the bar. When the bartender approached I heard a voice behind me say, “JB on the rocks, and make it a double.” I turned and smiled at the familiar face. When my drink arrived, he suggested I join him at a quieter table in the back. I followed and couldn’t help but notice how great his ass looked in those jeans. I was determined to have sex with something other than my hand last night. Brian or no Brian, that was one promise that wasn’t going to be broken.   
  
Over our first drink I got a history lesson in Trevor Conley. He was from Massachusetts and moved here a couple of years ago to pursue his art. Hmm, sounds familiar. No boyfriend, never been in a long-term relationship, came out in college, majored in theatre, twenty-seven, English-Italian heritage, long brown hair, dark eyes and one fucking amazing mouth.   
  
Over our second drink he learned about Brian Kinney. I think I rambled. All he had to do was ask, “So, who is this someone who didn’t show?” and I spilled everything. How we met, how I pursued him, the trouble with my dad, the bashing, PIFA, Rage, Ethan, our reunion, Stockwell, Pink Posse, Brian’s cancer, Hollywood, our separation, our “almost marriage” and now this. The amazing thing was, he just listened. He didn’t judge, he didn’t offer suggestions, he just listened. Two hours passed in what felt like ten minutes, and I was still coherent enough to realize that I wouldn’t be much longer if we didn’t get out of there.   
  
We poured ourselves into the back seat of a cab after deciding that my place would be the better of the two to spend the night at. He had a couple of roommates who were gay also, which was a plus. However, they more than likely would be home, and I didn't feel like sharing. Jared, on the other hand, was spending the weekend skiing. And I now had a bedroom/studio devoid of art, leaving plenty of room for the futon mattress on the floor. What a step down from the room at the Four Season’s I had been planning on.   
  
The cab deposited us on my doorstep and we stumbled, giggling, up the stairs. It took me a hell of a long time to find the key, but that might have had something to do with the fact that it was hard to see around the face that was attached to mine. I dropped my cell phone into its charger as I headed to the bathroom to take a piss. “I’m plugging mine in too, do you mind?” he asked. “Be my guest.” I called back.   
  
Soon I heard footsteps behind me. “Leave it out.” He was in the doorway as I stood facing the can. Peeing finished, I followed his instructions, flushed and turned around. He kissed me hard and then knelt before me, sucking me with the toilet for our backdrop. Not too romantic but at this point, I couldn’t have cared less. It felt great and I came in minutes. 

  
“I want to shower,” I told him.   
  
“What?” He looked confused. He probably thought I was some psycho who now thought I was dirty because he blew me.   
  
“I want to shower, and make sure I’m clean. Really clean. And then I want you to fuck me.”  
  
“Oh.” He smiled and understood.   
  
I pointed the way to the bedroom and turned on the water. If it had been large enough, I would have pulled him in with me but – sadly - that wasn't the case. The hot water soothed my skin but couldn't reach deep enough to touch the ache in my heart. This was not at all what I had planned. When will I learn that where Brian Kinney is concerned, it never is. It was then that I decided I could no longer continue this. No longer play his game like some dog in training. Do what I say and you'll get a treat. Maybe. There was a beautiful man lying in my bed right then, more than ready to give me what I really needed and I was going for it.   
  
I toweled off and was surprised to see Trevor standing naked in the hall holding out my cell phone when I exited the bathroom. "Brian called," is all he said as he placed the phone in my hand.   
  
"Did you talk to him?"  
  
"Yeah"  
  
"Where is he?"  
  
"I don't know, he just said you should call him."  
  
I looked at Trevor. He was semi-erect and puzzled, wondering what my next move would be. I began to dial that all too familiar number but stopped...recalling the promise I had just made to myself in the shower. I'm through playing this game. Brian was obviously safe but not here. Trevor was. Fuck Brian, and...fuck me...please.   
  
I woke up this morning with a pounding headache but freshly sucked, rimmed and fucked. In addition, there was a warm body wrapped around mine. I extricated myself to get up and take some aspirin. When I came back to the room, rubbing my temples, Trevor was awake. "Mornin’," he said sleepily. "Want me to leave?"   
  
"No, I've got a bitch of a headache, but it's actually quite nice to lie next to another body for a change."  
  
We were silent for a moment and then he turned and asked, "Are you going to call him?"  
  
"Yeah, eventually. I just don't feel up to the fight yet."  
  
"Why does there have to be a fight?"  
  
"Don't ask, okay?"  
  
"Hey, it's obvious how much you love this guy. And after everything you told me that you two have been through together...."  
  
"Trevor, please...just shut the fuck up. I liked you better when you just listened."  
  
He chuckled, "I like you too, you know."  
  
I turned and smiled back. "Friends?"   
  
"Friends" he replied and pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around me while I drifted back to sleep and let the aspirin work its magic. I woke for a second time a few hours later to an empty bed and a note.   
  
**Justin -**  
Thanks for last night. It was great and you are amazing.  
I have an audition today so I had to run and didn't want to wake you.  
Call me. 212-784-2893   
Trevor  
  
My head felt much better and I knew the time had come to make the call. My hand was shaking as I dialed Brian's cell.  
  
“Justin”, he answered on the first ring.  
  
“Where are you?”   
  
“Pittsburgh.”  
  
“Naturally.”   
  
“Justin, the plane was stranded in San Francisco. I sat on the fucking runway for three hours, and my cell was useless. By the time I got to Chicago, you were already at the show. I'm sorry, if I could have been there I would have.”   
  
“Bullshit.”   
  
“Justin - it was business. My business and the show was yours. How did it go?”   
  
“What the fuck does it matter, Brian?”   
  
“It matters because it's your future. It's what you have been working for. It's why you're in New York, for Christ’s sake.”  
  
“No! Stop! Don’t you dare tell me what I have been working for. I have been working for us, Brian. But, you wouldn't know what that's like, would you? It's always business with you, isn't it, you selfish prick. Whenever the choice is between me and your business, I know where I stand.”   
  
“Justin…”  
  
“So you landed in Chicago and switched your flight to Pittsburgh? How convenient.”   
  
“The meetings didn't go well. I needed to get with my Art Department first thing this morning to make some changes or lose the account. I had already missed the show. As soon as I get this taken care of, I'll fly out and spend a few days there. How does the Ritz sound?”   
  
“Lovely, I hope you enjoy yourself.”   
  
“Well, from the sound of your place last night, you weren't missing me too badly.”   
  
“Oh, fuck you. Fuck you, Brian!”   
  
“Hey, I never said you couldn't trick remember?”   
  
I couldn't speak and I couldn't hold back the tears. Damn, I didn't want to do this. Finally, I blurted out sobbing, "But that's the point, Brian. I haven't been. I saved myself for you."  
  
“I never asked for that.”   
  
“I know, but that's what people who are in love do. Have you ever loved, Brian? Have you really ever loved me?”   
  
“Don’t ask stupid questions, Justin. Yes...I have...and you know it.”  
  
“Fuck I do.”   
  
“Justin, I don't think now is the time to be having this conversation.”   
  
“The time is never right because you never have the time. Just forget it, Brian.”   
  
*click*  



	9. Chapter 9

  
Author's notes: I'll be traveling over this weekend. I should post a chapter early tomorrow, but Saturday is highly problematic. Sunday I will definitely update.  


* * *

**RESIDENTIAL LEASE/RENTAL AGREEMENT Page 1 of 4**  
(For use in the State of New York)

 

PARTIES: LANDLORD: S Ehrens & Associates

TENANT(S): Justin Taylor

 

 

PROPERTY ADDRESS:  
29 E 10th St  
Apt 5A  
New York, NY 10003

 

1\. RENTAL AMOUNT: Commencing May 1st, 2006 TENANT agrees to pay LANDLORD the sum of $ 1800 per month in advance on the 10th day of each calendar month. Said rental payment shall be delivered by TENANT to LANDLORD or his/her designated agent to the following location:

22 E 13th St  
Suite 103  
New York, NY 10003

Rent must be actually received by LANDLORD, or designated agent, in order to be considered in compliance with the terms of this agreement.

 

2\. TERM: The premises are leased on the following lease term: (please check one item only)  
___ Month to month

(OR)

X until October 31, 2006.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

 

April 10th, 2006 - New York  
Listening to: Lifehouse – [The End Has Only Begun](http://rapidshare.de/files/8440511/13_The_End_Has_Only_Begun.m4a.html)

For the first time in my life, I have signed a lease. I have finally committed myself to staying in the same place for at least six months. Jefferson Stace and his associates at the Regent Gallery really do understand how tough it is for new, un-established artists. He had my check for the profits from the show cut and ready by the end of the month when I brought him my new pieces as promised. Oddly enough, the three paintings that were not sold on the 18th were purchased by an anonymous buyer on Monday the 20th. All he could tell me is that they were purchased by an out-of-state, commercial establishment. Gee, who could that be? I have a feeling a trio of new paintings are hanging on Kinnetik's walls as I write this. I e-mailed Cynthia and asked but she was as tight-lipped as ever. She knows what side her bread is buttered on.

There has been no direct conversation between Brian and me since the last phone call. Maybe I was a bit rash but I still feel that what he did was incredibly selfish, and he is not going to buy his way out of it. After all, getting a show was his stipulation, and I held up my end of the deal. I gave him plenty of advance notice and I am positive, had the situation been reversed, I would have either rescheduled my meetings all together or most certainly would not have stayed the extra day. It's so like him to think that he can do it all. But when all becomes an impossible task, everything and everyone in his life plays second fiddle to his career.

I love Brian. I know I do, but I love my idealized version of him. I realize it is a version that he will probably never be. I have picked up the phone so many times and started to dial his number, but I never follow through because that thought always comes around to haunt me. If I called him right now I could probably convince him to come up next weekend, and I would be happy for what? A week? A month maybe? Certainly only until the next time I want to see him again. I should have remembered what Michael told me years ago. Brian Kinney doesn't do relationships. Fuck, if he doesn't do them when you are in his face, he sure as hell isn't going to do them when you are hundreds of miles away. I need to move on. He has.

I spoke to my mom yesterday, and she said he contacted her about selling the house in West Virginia. This seems to be the week for real estate transactions. I understand. The thing is a money pit, and he's never going to live there with or without me. Hearing it, however, hurt. It’s just another nail in our coffin.

On a brighter note, I will soon be the sole occupant of apartment 5A at 29 E 10th Street. It's nothing grand but compared to what I have been living in since October, it is a mansion. One bedroom, one bath, kitchen and living room that will double as my studio space. I was lucky to get it. I happened to be having lunch in a little Ukrainian restaurant around the corner when the landlady posted its availability on their bulletin board. I was sitting close enough to read the post and caught her before she left. She was great, funny as hell and she took me up there immediately. We shook on it and I will be moving in next week.

It's not cheap but nothing here is. In addition to the ten extra paintings Jefferson ordered, I have secured two other commissions; one fairly large piece for a new law office and another for one of the lawyer's wives. Between those two and my check from the gallery, I know I will have a roof over my head for the duration of the lease. If nothing else sells, food and heat may be a little dicey but I'll survive. Trevor assures me there are always plenty of leftovers from his catering jobs.

He and I have become good friends. I am very thankful to have him in that role. He has introduced me to his circle of acquaintances, but I have never been much for large groups. We usually get together a couple of times a week and, more often than not, make a night of it. We are comfortable with each other, and we fill each other's voids, in more ways than one. Neither of us are looking for a relationship. He's up for a part in a movie that will be shot in Hollywood, and the last thing I need is another long distance love affair. We're friends and fuck buddies. No more, no less. He's helping me deal with the loss of Brian and I love him for that.  



	10. Chapter 10

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**15 May 2006**  
Listening to: Matchbox Twenty - [You’re So Real](http://rapidshare.de/files/8552454/14_You_re_So_Real.m4a.html)

I wish to hell everybody would just ignore my birthday. Which Justin knows better than anyone. So today, right on time, I got a card from him. A smart-alecky, wiseass card, somewhat redeemed by the picture of a hot dude. Real jerk-off material but not for me. I go looking for a picture of Justin when I want to jerk off.

I know the gallery show was a success…hell, I helped made it a success…so he’s been able to rent a place of his own. He scribbled his new address on the card, prefacing the address with, “If you care.” The smackass. Of course, I care. Dammit, he knows I care.

I don’t know anything about that damn Trevor Convoy or Conway or Conover or whatever-the-hell- his-name-is, but he sure as fuck isn’t the boyfriend for Justin. I know why Justin is acting so pissy: he’s not getting enough. Years of experience have taught me that a tired Justin is a pleasant Justin, and it takes a lot to tire Justin out.

All _I’d_ need is one night and one morning with him. I’d fuck him silly…in the shower, on the desk, bent over the couch…until I’d fucked all his nonsense right out of his head, and then I’d suck his dick until he couldn’t stand up without help. He might not love me any better after being screwed from here to Christmas, but he’d sure as hell be a lot nicer to be around.

I have a trip to New York scheduled for next month on that damn DreECo account. (What the hell made Dan Erskine decide to select a gay ad executive to push pneumatic and hydraulic machine parts? Well, I guess I know one reason, but I swear I never would have fucked him if I’d known I’d get his account.)

Anyway, getting back to Justin, I can’t make up my mind whether to stop by 29 East 10th Street while I’m there or not. On one hand, I’d like to check up on him, but on the other hand, he needs to stand on his own two feet. Fuck. Right about now I’d like to have Lindsay to talk to. As long as I’m being lesbianic, some advice from a pro might help. But, no, I’m in this all by myself. FUCK.  



	11. Chapter 11

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**June 11th, 2006 – New York**  
Listening to: Sparks – [The Angels](http://rapidshare.de/files/8554832/15_The_Angels.m4a.html)

Its 3:36 a.m., I’m at Morgan’s Hotel on Madison Avenue, I’m drunk, I’m high, I’ve gotten my rocks off, and I still can’t sleep.

I’m in New York for DreECo’s first trade show presentation of Priority Productions’ multi-media work. Dan Erskine needed some handholding at the presentation, which went just fine, thank you very much. I hired an actor named Brett Caldwell to do the spoken word while Priority Productions’ film and still pictures played on the screen behind him. Brett looks like the kind of guy who knows all about hydraulic and pneumatic machine parts: mid-forties, rugged, salt-and-pepper hair, and we have him wearing glasses. Of course, Dan now wants to get into Brett’s pants, which I personally think is a mistake when you’re talking about a man who has a long-term contract with your company.

Anyway, that’s not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about Justin. Is that pathetic or what?

I flew into JFK this morning…or yesterday morning, I guess…God, I am so fucked up…got in a taxi, and out of my mouth came, “29 East 10th Street, please.” Where the fuck did that come from? I swear to God I had planned on going straight to the Morgan, checking in, and leaving my bag with the bellhop. It was 11:15 a.m., and my appointment with Dan was for 2:00. But once the words were out of my mouth, I realized I had to see where Justin lives, even though I had no plans to see Justin himself. I don’t want to get into that whole, “I love you, do you love me, you don’t act like it,” discussion again. Okay, admit it, at least to yourself, Brian: it would be even worse if Justin didn’t rerun that conversation because he’s moved on, and he doesn’t care anymore whether the fuck you love him or not.

Maundering again, damn it. It’s the J.B. that’s making me sentimental.

Anyway, we pulled up in front of his address, and the cabbie waited for me to pay him. I leaned forward and saw a typical Village tenement building, probably 100-years-old, six or eight stories high, apartments on the upper floors, shops at street level. As I watched, damned if the front door didn’t open and a blond stepped out onto the stoop. “Morgan Hotel, Madison Avenue,” I said to the cabbie.

I thought, _Well, I’ve seen him, and he looks O.K. The house looks O.K., too, given that I only saw the outside._

The trade show was…a trade show. How exciting can a trade show for industrial purchasing managers be? The presentation wowed them and, most importantly, sent prospects scurrying to the DreECo exhibit to talk to Dan and his associates, but not Brett. Brett knows diddley about hydraulic and pneumatic machine parts. What Brett knows is reading lines so that they raise goose bumps, looking the part, and – unless Dan and I are way off base – sucking dick.

Of course Dan wanted to go out that night…so did I…and he’d heard that there was a White Party at a place called Crobar that night. So after DreECo’s first presentation, I excused myself and indulged in some retail therapy. D & G is a couple of blocks up from the Morgan on Madison Avenue – well, that’s what the Morgan charges upwards of $400 a night for, isn’t it? Location, location, location – and I didn’t have any white pants with me. I now own, not only a pair of elegantly-fitting white pants, but also four tees, only one of which is white, and the unreconstructed jacket that goes with the pants. Doing damage to my American Express always cheers me up.

Cynthia made reservations for me at Landmarc weeks ago, so Dan, Brett, and I had a late dinner there before Dan and I caught a taxi for Crobar. Brett begged off. Maybe he doesn’t suck dick after all. Or maybe he was just tired. Whatever. It was nearly 11:00 by the time we left Landmarc. (I recommend the grilled tuna…not to mention the Sam Adams beer.)

I have a professional interest in clubs, and I’ve got to say that Crobar is impressive. Any club where you can tuck the whole of Babylon into the main room and still have abundant square footage to spare is _big_. Their back room is a series of small rooms off the main room, tastefully decorated with sofas, chairs, discreetly placed handholds, and only the faintest smell of Eau de Come.

After I’d prowled the whole place, I got a drink and looked for Dan. Nowhere to be found. Surprise, surprise. I had just started for the stairs to the cat walk when – I swear – I felt an electric charge that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I turned, looked toward the main bar, and there was a slim blond, leaning against it scanning the crowd. I faded back to the wall, behind a large group of partying guys and girls, and did my best impression of invisibility without ever taking my eyes off of Justin.

He stood where he was for a moment, and then, even from where I was, I could see his face light up. I almost lost him in the crowd as he wriggled his way toward the entrance, not far from me. I drifted down the wall a bit, putting more people between us. No danger: Justin had found what he was looking for. He threw his arms exuberantly around a young guy and gave him a huge smile. Mega-wattage. Then they kissed…and kissed…and kissed. Justin was still beaming at the guy when he came up for air.

I turned away. I didn’t need to watch any more. I knew what I’d seen; I’d seen Justin in love. I know what Justin-in-love looks like, from personal experience, and this was it. I had guessed that Justin was so willing to break up because he’d moved on, and I thought that was O.K. with me. Apparently, having a belief and seeing the actuality are two different animals. Seeing Justin in love hurt like…well, I once slammed a car door shut on my finger. The pain was searing and prolonged. It hurt too much to scream. So did this.

Fortunately over the past 35 years, I’ve developed a tolerance for pain and methods of dealing with it. First of all, I needed to make a purchase and then I needed to find a willing ass to fuck. Frankly, neither goal seemed difficult to obtain at Crobar.

I started off by going on another tour of the side rooms. About fifteen minutes into the tour, I noticed two guys with their heads close together in intimate conversation. I watched them, saw something change hands, and then one of the guys walked away. I went up to the other guy, a scruffy-looking twenty-something. I leaned close and said, “I’m looking for the fifth letter in the alphabet.”

Scruffy said, “I don’t know you, man.”

“I don’t know you, either, _man_ , but I’ll bet you know my friend here,” and I opened my hand to show him Ben Franklin’s picture. That’s about three times the usual street price for E. I immediately became Scruffy’s best friend, and my $100 became his tab of E.

“Never buy drugs from strangers.” Good rule. All rules are meant to be broken, however. I swallowed the tab and started looking for the willing ass.

For that, I needed to be in the main room, I thought. A quick look around, but no Justin. Good. I stood on the sidelines for five minutes or so until I saw what I wanted: short, slight, 20s, curly brown hair, not obviously with anyone. I moved out onto the dance floor and positioned myself in front of him. Hardly a minute had passed before Curly noticed me. When he did, I smiled, trying hard to keep the smile warm and seductive, not sarcastic or harsh. I must have succeeded because he smiled back.

From there on it was S.O.P all the way. I started bumping up against him gently, started touching him randomly, here and there, all the while staring at him intently. Works every time. By the time he licked his lips, I knew I had him. I grabbed his wrist. “C’mon,” I said.

One of the side rooms had a sofa in a dark corner which was so discreetly angled that somebody bending a boy over its back could fuck him fairly inconspicuously. Not that I gave a rat’s ass whether or not we were conspicuous, but I don’t like being interrupted when I’m fucking, and I wasn’t sure of the rules at Crobar.

When we reached our destination, I pulled Curly close to me, his back to my chest, and let him feel my erection against his butt. He sucked in his breath, and I smiled to myself. The E was starting to mellow me out a little. Thank God for the pharmaceutical industry, both tax-paying and otherwise. He undid the top button of his painter’s pants, and I ran my hand down to his penis. My God, is there a better feeling in the world than the feel of a hot, hard, weeping dick in your hand? (Yes, I _can_ think of a few, but let’s not get technical here.)

I pushed Curly’s pants down, and he braced his arms on the back of the couch and stuck his ass out. I might not be sure of Crobar’s policies, but Curly certainly seemed to know what I was after and to be cooperating fully with me. I got the lube, a condom, and a handkerchief out of my pocket and laid them on the back of the sofa. I then pushed my pants down. I rubbed my naked dick up and down his crack, my balls bumping against his hole. He gave a stifled moan, and I took a quick look around the room. There were ten or twelve other people in the room, in two clusters, but none of them were paying us any attention.

I rolled on the condom, lubed him, and slipped two fingers into his tight, hot hole. I flexed them and waited for his reaction. He sucked in a breath, but he wasn’t panicking. I stretched him more vigorously, and he grunted. I leaned forward and murmured, “Ready?”

He nodded, and I pushed in, exerting a steady pressure. This time his grunt was more emphatic. Still nobody was looking our way. I leaned over and kissed his neck, then nipped his shoulder, hard enough to hurt. He flinched, driving me deeper. It was my turn to suck in my breath, and I heard his small laugh in response. Okay, if he was comfortable enough to laugh, it was time to get down to business.

I started moving in and out, slowly at first, then picking up the pace, moving faster, pushing harder. Curly was moaning now. I took a quick look around the room and saw that one of the groups was now looking at us. My pulse quickened. Knowing we were putting on a show gave an added zip to the sex. I leaned over Curly and whispered, “Quiet,” then put my hand over his mouth. He spread his lips and licked my fingers, running his tongue in between them. I bent over and rested my head on his shoulder. I pushed my handkerchief into his hand, then I stroked his own pre-come over his penis and started jerking him off. He stiffened. I pulled almost all the way out, then drove in hard. He spasmed, clenching and releasing me as his orgasm ripped through him. A few more strokes and I came, too.

I straightened up, tied off the condom, and deposited it in a nearby wastebasket. A quick look around, and I saw that the larger group were still unaware of our interlude. The other four were watching, half-embarrassed, half-fascinated. I pulled my pants up, zipped them, buckled my belt, and gave our audience a thumbs-up. Three of them turned away, but the fourth – a girl in her 20s – returned the thumbs up with a grin. Tsk, tsk. Just shocking, today’s youth.

By now Curly had pulled himself together and was holding out my handkerchief. I definitely did not want to put a come-soaked handkerchief back in my pocket. “Toss it,” I said, gesturing at the convenient wastebasket.

Curly looked up at me shyly. (How can you feel shy with someone who’s had his dick up your ass and his hand on your cock? I’ll never figure that one out, but it’s more common than you would think.) “Do you mind if I keep it?”

“Hell,no.” I buy them in lots of 20, all embroidered BAK, for about $75.00, so the loss of one is trivial. I thought it was a pretty funky souvenir, but what the fuck? He saw the look on my face and said, “I’ll take it to the bathroom and wash it out.”

I shrugged and went back to the main room. I felt strangely dissatisfied. Oh, I’d had my physical needs taken care of, but otherwise…well, the trick wasn’t Justin. In fact, now that I thought about it, no one I’d done recently had been a satisfactory substitute for him. Maybe it was seeing him, however distantly, that brought that into focus. I dunno. Maybe not. All I know is that I miss him.

Now it’s a little past 5:00 a.m., and I’m finally tired. I promised to meet Dan at 9:00 a.m. downstairs for breakfast. That means I can sleep until 8:30, 8:45, as long as I’m up in time to call him before we’re supposed to meet and tell him I’ll be about half an hour late. I can function perfectly well on three hours of sleep. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. G’night.  



	12. Chapter 12

  
Author's notes:   


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**June 11, 2006 - New York**  
Listening to: Jeff Buckley - [Lover, You Should Have Come Over"](http://rapidshare.de/files/8818530/16_Lover__You_Should_Have_Come_Over.m4a.html)  
  
  
Well yesterday was certainly a banner day.  
  
It started out routinely enough. Got up and made a pot of coffee. Yes, now that I have my own place, I actually invested in a coffeemaker. Had I known how cheap they were, I would have bought one months ago since I have probably paid for it seventeen times over in my numerous trips to Starbucks.   
  
I took my liquid breakfast to my studio, a whole fourteen steps away, and continued to work on the now almost finished piece for Crawford and Layton Law Office. It's a large complex painting of grays, blues, russet, and gold that takes up every conceivable square foot in my studio/living room, and I will be more than happy to have it completed and out of here. My rapidly dwindling checking account will be overjoyed also.  
  
The hours get away from me when I paint, and before I knew it, my stomach was reminding me I hadn't eaten since last night. I heated up left over Thai and thought of how many times I sat at a much nicer breakfast bar, eating the same thing. For the first time today I thought about Brian. Hey, that must have been a record. Nearly noon and he hadn't come to greet me yet. I wondered what he was doing at that moment. Was he at the diner sitting down to a turkey on wheat, no mayo? Laughing it up with Michael, Emmett and Ted about his last night conquest at Babylon? Or was there someone else starting to worm his way into Brian's life, and his bed, keeping him away from Babylon and filling the empty places I left? Has he taken my picture off of his dresser? Are my paintings gone from the loft? How do I remove this knife from my heart? Fuck...I have to stop this.   
  
It has been nearly three months since I heard his voice. Our nightly phone sex sessions have been replaced with nothing but memories of him, porn and an occasional fuck buddy in the shape of Trevor Conley who just happened to call at that moment, shaking me out of my day dream. I clicked on the answer button to be greeted with a loud, rapidly escalating, "I got the part...I got the part...I GOT THE PART!!!!"  
  
Knowing that with him, this could be anything from a walk on in an upstate community theatre production to the lead in Broadway's next big thing, I remained composed and asked what the fuck he was talking about.   
  
"The movie! I'm going to Hollywood!"  
  
Oh...My...God.   
  
"Trevor, that's great. I am so happy for you...honestly. Tell me about it."  
  
"Not now. You'll hear all about it later. Right now I have too much to do. What are you wearing tonight?"  
  
"Tonight?"  
  
"The White Party, dumb ass. I told you last week."  
  
"Oh...yeah...is that tonight?"  
  
"Fuck, Justin, get your ass out of the house once in awhile. What the hell are you going to do when I’m gone?"  
  
Probably limit my nightly activities to just memories and porn, I thought, but I asked him, "What does it matter what I wear?"  
  
"It's the White Party. Humor me and dress the part, OK?"  
  
Damn. Where the hell is Emmett when you need him? "Yeah, sure. Where do I go and what time?"  
  
"Crobar. Danny and Alex will be there by eleven. I have a party to cater but should be there by then or shortly after. Now get off the phone and go shopping. Do you know what a store is?"  
  
"Shut the fuck up," I told him, laughing now. "See you later. I'll be the one in jeans and a blue, paint-splattered t-shirt."  
  
"If you are, you will be parading around in my spare white mesh thong and a feather boa. The boys and I will see to that...bye, sweetie."  
  
"Bye."  
  
Damn iiiiiit. I didn't want to go shopping. But, as long as my paints were closed up and the canvas needed to dry, I dumped my plate in the sink, washed up as best I could, and headed out into the warm sunshine. Trevor was right. I really should get out more because; I think being cooped up with all of those paint fumes is causing me to hallucinate.   
  
As I stood on my stoop, trying to decide which way to turn, I noticed a cab parked across the street. After a moment, it pulled out into traffic and through the tinted back window; I could have sworn I saw Brian. I did a double take, but the man was now holding a cell phone to his face and then the car was gone, disappearing around the corner. I rubbed my eyes and shook my head, thinking what an idiot I was. Would his memory ever leave me alone? Dreams were one thing but this was broad daylight, for Christ sake.   
  
Luckily, my apartment is an easy walk to the Village. I figured if I couldn't find an appropriate White Party outfit there, I wouldn’t find it anywhere. It did not let me down. White drawstring pants, flip flops and a minimally embellished, midriff baring white t-shirt suited my style just fine. Mesh thong and feather boa, my ass. I was back home by 2:30, hot and sweaty. The day had turned into a scorcher. I hung up my newly purchased evening attire and stripped off the day's clothes. A lukewarm mid-day shower would feel fine.  
  
As I stood under the water, my back to the showerhead, I began to obsess over the man in the cab and who I wanted that man to be. Obsession soon gave way to fantasy, and the stream of water hitting my shoulders, running down my back and into my crack were now Brian’s hands: long, thin, impeccably manicured fingers. They caressed me like only he knew how to. Will I ever meet another man who can make me hard by simply touching my shoulder? I turned the shower attachment to pulse and my dick stiffened further at the thought of his tongue lapping rhythmically at my exposed hole. I inserted one finger and then two, imagining it was him, hard and wanting. I grasped my penis with my other hand, but it was not mine, it was his hand, stroking me softly and then harder...faster. "Brian", I cried as I came and then sunk to my knees, burying my head in my hands. The water turned cold before I got up. I've convinced myself that tears don't count when they are washed away in the shower.   
  
Drying myself as I walked to the bedroom, I couldn't help but think what a pathetic asshole I was. I am a healthy, young, unattached, attractive, blond, semi-successful gay man living in Manhattan who, for the past five months, has had sex with one man and my hand. The really sad thing is that my hand has seen far more action than the man, and the man will soon be leaving town. I lay down on my bed and drifted off to thoughts of the person I wished I was having sex with, only to wake up a couple of hours later, alone as usual.   
  
I put in several more hours work on my canvass and ordered pizza in. At about eleven I dressed for the party and made my way over to Crobar. The place is twice the size of Babylon, and it took me at least fifteen minutes to find Trevor’s room mates, Danny and Alex. We were on our second drink when the man of the hour arrived, dressed in boots, tight, ass hugging white shorts, white leather cuffs and a bow tie. Trevor and I made eye contact when he was about 20 feet away, and I impulsively rushed to him. All smiles, we embraced, and I gave him a few congratulatory kisses before pulling him to the dance floor.   
  
What a nice feeling it was to be truly happy for someone else’s success, even when that success is taking him away from you. I have never before had a person like Trevor in my life. A good friend I can be intimate with but that I feel absolutely no romantic attachment to. I will miss him when he is gone, yet I am not too sad. I am certain we will never lose touch with each other. Unlike Brian, I have no problem getting on a plane to visit someone I care for, no strings attached.   
  
We danced and then headed to the bar for a drink. The place was packed with hot, sweaty, semi-naked men, and we were in a mood to celebrate. We made a friendly agreement that unless a better opportunity presented itself we would meet back at the same spot in an hour and head to my place, which is precisely what happened. It's amazing we even found each other, considering the occupancy of the place.   
  
It was a warm night, and the fact that two men dressed all in white, one of them in shorts, shirtless, with a bow tie around his neck doesn't even merit a second glance is just one of the great things about New York City. We walked back to my place, and Trevor filled me in on all the movie details. It's a small part but it's a start. I warned him of the pitfalls of Hollywood life but was careful not to burst his bubble. He's a smart man and he learns quickly. Hopefully, his experience will be better than mine. He expects to be gone for about three months, but we both know that could dissolve quickly into three weeks or stretch into thirty years. Those thoughts were left unsaid as we partook of each other's bodies through out the night.   
  
We woke to the incessant ringing of his cell phone, and I felt him fumbling over his side of the bed to find it.   
  
"Yeah…This better be good, Danny. Oh fuck, like I care. Here, talk to Justin, he gets into that kinda shit. I gotta piss.”  
  
He switched it to speaker mode and propped his phone up next to my ear with his pillow.  
  
 _"Justin..you there? Wake up."_  
  
"Yeah."  
  
 _"I gotta tell you about this guy who fucked me at Crobar last night.”_  
  
“Okay…shoot…um, I mean, I’m listening.”  
  
 _“So while you and Trevor were dancing, I figured I’d try to find some action. I didn’t want to prowl the backrooms, but I was hoping to end up in one so I just kinda hung out on the far edge of the dance floor near their entrance.”_  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
 _“I’m was just swaying to the music with a group of guys when this incredibly hot older man walks up and gets right in my face. He was amazing. Tall and thin, brown hair and these huge green or brown, I don’t know…it was kinda dark...maybe hazel eyes. And his mouth…oh god, Justin, his mouth. Full lips, beautiful smile…just made me want to shove my tongue or dick in you know? He didn’t say a word. Just starts moving with me and running his hands all over my body. And he smelled so good. Like expensive lotions and shampoo, not the shit we use. Smelled like money, you know?”_  
  
“Um, yeah, I do.” This was sounding familiar. Too familiar. I grabbed the phone and scooted up on one elbow. “How old do you think he was?”  
  
 _“I don’t know, thirty, thirty-five. We danced like that for a few minutes and then he grabs my wrist and simply says, ‘C’mon.’ I’m pretty sure a guy who looks like that never has to ask. He pulled me into one of the rooms with a couch and stood me up against the back of it with him behind me. In about two minutes he had my pants around my ankles and was pounding me.”_  
  
“His smile, Danny…can you remember, did he have a crooked eye tooth?”  
  
 _“Fuck, I don’t know. You got a thing for crooked teeth? It was dark. Anyway, while we are doin’ it, he hands me a monogrammed handkerchief to use as a cum rag! Who the hell does that?!”_  
  
“B.A.K.”  
  
 _“Um…yeah...you know him?”_  
  
“It was Brian.” That bastard…he never even called.  
  
 _“Oh, Justin…I don’t think so.”_  
  
“It was Brian, Danny. I saw him outside my apartment yesterday morning. But he didn’t stop…he never called.”  
  
 _“Really? I’m sorry. Maybe it wasn’t him.”_  
  
“It was him. It’s okay. Next time you’re here, I’ll show you pictures. I gotta go.” Trevor was walking back in and looking concerned. Must have been the fact that my eyes were starting to water.   
  
“Trouble?” Trevor asked.   
  
“No,” I sniffed and wiped my eyes. “Just allergies.”  



	13. Chapter 13

  
Author's notes:   


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**July 10th, 2006 – New York**  
Listening to: The Used – [All That I’ve Got](http://rapidshare.de/files/8818718/01_All_That_I_ve_Got.m4a.html)  
  
  
I'm so fucking depressed. I think I'm homesick. The only positive thing about days like this is that I realize the situation usually doesn't get any worse. I've bottomed out.   
  
I have been in New York for nearly nine months and oddly enough, aside from the times I've queened out over Brian, the loneliness really hasn't hit me until now. Initially, I was just excited to be here and I had plenty of work to keep me busy. I was barely settled in when the trip to Toronto presented itself and then, a month later, I was back in Pittsburgh for Christmas. It was almost as if I was just visiting here.  
  
After the holidays I was so busy painting, getting the materials together for that fucking fellowship application and then preparing for the show, that I didn't have time to miss anyone...except Brian. When I lost him, Trevor did a pretty good job of keeping me from losing my mind along with it and now he is gone too. He left for Hollywood about three weeks ago. I feel completely alone. If the one in ten estimate is right, there should be somewhere around 400 thousand gay men in New York City. You'd think I could find one to compare to Brian Kinney.   
  
I think this current suck ass mood started a few days ago when I got the invitation for the Gay and Lesbian Center's upcoming fundraiser. It's a mixer and a silent auction, and I really want to be there. I want to listen to Emmett critique the menu and see what Ted and Blake bid on for their new place. I want to laugh with Michael as we reminisce about the good times we had creating Rage and hear Ben tell stories of life with a seventeen year old in the house. I want to gossip with Daphne about who probably fucked who afterwards, have Deb baby me at the diner, play scrabble with Molly and eat my mom’s pot roast.  
  
More than anything, I want to walk beside Brian as he complains about everything the auction has to offer. I want to hold his hand and whisper in his ear to keep it down. I want to feel his lips against mine when he turns to make another snide remark and ends up kissing me instead. And most of all, I want to feel his arms around me and his dick inside me later that night after we have both had too much to drink and Michael and Ben have had to drive us home. 

  
I miss him. God, how I miss him.  
  
My biggest fear is that he does not feel the same. He has my new address, and he knows my phone number hasn't changed. Still, he has not made any attempt to contact me. How hard would it be to pick up the phone? I guess I was supposed to call him and apologize for being upset that he missed my show. I hate the fact that the memory of something I am so proud of is tied to the loss of the person I loved the most in this world.   
  
I wonder if he has he been back to New York since the night of the white party.   
That still slays me. Once again, it’s way too much trouble to make a trip here to see me, but if business beckons? He’s on the first flight out. Why didn’t he call? Is he just glad to be rid of me? I know that sounds absurd. I know he loved me, and I don’t think I did anything to change that but for some reason it seems like, now, he wants nothing to do with me. I wouldn’t put it past him to have set up the tryst with Danny just to push me over the edge.   
  
I wish I could at least talk about this stuff with someone who knows Brian but I can’t. If I say anything to Michael, he’ll go running to him, Ted would play dumb since he works for him and Emmett would just get emotional on me. I’d cry, he’d cry, it would just be a lose-lose situation with the two of us together on the phone. I know they’d tell me to just live my own life right now and quit obsessing over him. I know that’s what I should be doing, but it’s easier said than done. They’d also assure me he's not going anywhere. Michael told me before I left that it took Brian nearly thirty-five years to fall in love the first time, and that he's not about to change his ways now. I wonder. And I worry.   
  
Contributing to my nostalgic frame of mind is the fact that I seem to be in a rut with my art. While the show at the Regent brought me several commissions and opened up some new doors for me, I absolutely hate the amount of self-promotion that is required to stay in the limelight and make it in this business, in this town. It’s just not me. This is Brian’s forte. I want him for my agent and I want him in my bed.   
  
I don’t know what I am going to do when my lease is up. Right now, if I had the funds, I would go back to Pittsburgh and do just what Jefferson and his friends did. I’d start my own place. Fuck agents. I’d display my work and the work of new artists I respected. I’d start small, hopefully play my cards right and grow it into a profitable business. But Brian would look at that as just another one of my whims and maybe he’s right, it probably would be.   
  
I know I’m just feeling sorry for myself right now and it will pass. But because I cannot bring myself to face him, I will be staying in New York and getting drunk the night of July 22nd. I’m sending them a sketch of mine for the auction; one that I have to get rid of. One that hurts too much to look at anymore. Hopefully something good will come out of this whole fucked up situation.  



	14. Chapter 14

  
Author's notes:   


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**July 23, 2006 – Pittsburgh**  
Listening to: Alpha – [Lipstick From the Asylum](http://rapidshare.de/files/8818811/02_Lipstick_From_the_Asylum.m4a.html)  
  
  
With their usual insight into the life-styles of the gay, lesbian, bi-sexual, and trans-gendered community, the GLBT Center scheduled a fund-raiser for a Saturday night. Right. That’s exactly how all of us gays, lesbians, bi-sexuals, and transsexuals want to spend our Saturday nights: sitting on folding chairs, sipping cheap chardonnay, and bidding on works by the sort of third-rate artists who only sell their art at fund-raising auctions. They tried to make things interesting by holding it at a country club and titling the event, “Martini’s and Bikinis,” even awarding prizes for the best beach wear. Believe me; I do not care to see 90% of this crowd in a Speedo.   
  
So was I, Brian Kinney, planning on attending this dreary event? Damn straight I was. An artist who is not third-rate had donated a picture that I intended to buy. Once bought, I planned on boycotting the rest of the event. I’d buy the fucking picture and leave for a more congenial location: Woody’s or Babylon, depending on the time.  
  
I had guessed that the GLBT Center would ask Justin for a painting, and Michael confirmed it. It arrived two weeks ago. Ben is the auctioneer, and he has steadfastly refused to tell Michael anything about Justin’s picture except that, “I think it will cause quite a stir.” Good P.R., Ben. Michael is wildly curious about exactly why it will cause a stir, and he has talked of nothing else since the picture arrived. Knowing Michael, even total strangers have gotten an earful. Consequently, attendance is probably up 50% over last year’s auction.   
  
Personally, I wasn’t worried. Justin is working in oil and producing semi-abstract and abstract paintings. How much of a stir can a semi-abstract painting produce, even if it’s two guys fucking? This auction was a benefit for the GLBT Center, for Christ’s sake; not Hunter’s high school. The GLBT doesn’t have a PTA to get all bent out of shape at a hint of sex.  
  
I arrived at the auction fashionably late. Several items had already been bid on when I got there, but Ted was quick to tell me that I hadn’t missed Justin’s painting. I was not surprised; they never start these auctions off with important pieces. What I hadn’t counted on was that the news of a ‘mystery’ painting had created so much interest that Ben had decided to put it up for bids last. Fuck, I could have waited another hour before making an appearance. Or come earlier and gotten a seat, instead of having to stand in the back of the room.  
  
So, two and a half hours after I arrived, the room was still full. Ben said, “For our last item, I am proud to offer a drawing, in charcoal, 2 ½ feet by 3 ½ feet, with a white mat and metal frame.” Philip brought the picture out, which was covered with a large white cloth that looked like a sheet to me, and set it on the easel. For the first time, I felt nervous. None of the other pictures had merited unveiling.  
  
After a dramatic pause – damn, I never knew he was such a showman – Ben whipped the cloth off. There was a collective gasp. I hope I didn’t contribute, but the picture hit me like a punch in the gut. It was in charcoal, it was realistic – it must have taken Justin many, many short sessions to achieve that fine detail – and it was me. I was naked, lying on my back, or standing, can’t really tell. I’m looking at someone, probably him, my arm stretched out in his direction. The other hand lay on my stomach, just above my pubes. Every vein, every muscle, all the underlying bone structure was drawn in exact detail. What the fuck? Justin had cut the picture off, just where things got really interesting. Maybe his way of showing what he would like to do to me.   
  
As soon as I had swept my eyes over the picture once, I became aware of a second phenomenon. Every head in the room had turned in my direction; every eye was on me, watching for my reaction. I looked all around the room, starting at one side and slowly turning my head until I had eyed the whole place. Not a head turned away, not an eye blinked, not a word was said. The room was dead silent.  
  
Suddenly, the whole situation struck me as funny. I smiled, then I started to chuckle, then the chuckle developed into a real laugh. A few of the faces watching me started to laugh, too, although they still looked bewildered. When I could speak again, I said, “I bid $2,000 for Justin’s Revenge.”   
  
Nobody else bid. I could probably have gotten it for less, but I didn’t want to get involved in a humiliating bidding war. Besides, it’s for a good cause, as everybody is always telling me, and I can afford it.   
  
Now I’m sitting here, comparing it to the sketch Justin did five years ago. He always had an eye, he always had talent, but the execution…well, his technique has improved radically. This drawing may have less spontaneity than that earlier one, but the erotic message is, if anything, stronger. Of course, that applies to more than just Justin’s art. His sexual technique changed from artless, unsophisticated, and enthusiastic to imaginative and experienced but still enthusiastic. Oh yes, definitely enthusiastic. Always.  
  
I’m remembering that time right after he got back from California. It was a Saturday night…or more likely, a Sunday morning…and we’d just gotten home from Babylon. We were both a little high, a little buzzed, and a lot horny. I went right to the refrigerator for a bottle of water and tossed a second to him. He caught it and drank it down, then started wandering aimlessly around the loft, undressing. He’d already left his shoes next to the door, his shirt got slung on the couch, he draped his pants over the back of the computer chair, his socks and underpants landed on the table.   
  
I was leaning against the counter, watching the strip show, not sure if he was intentionally trying to get me hot or if, in his own mind, he was just getting ready for bed. Not that it mattered: watching that slim, muscular body stretch to pull off his shirt or bend to take off his socks was getting me hard. He was affected, too, I noticed.  
  
I swallowed the last of the water and said, “Come here.”  
  
Justin stopped his wandering…he was in the vicinity of the steps to the bed…and looked at me vaguely. “Huh?”  
  
“You heard me. Come here.”  
  
The expression on his face changed. “Make me,” he said. (Just remembering the defiance in his voice is making me hard now.)  
  
I straightened up. “I said, Come here. Now.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“One last chance. You’re going to be sor-ree….”  
  
He shook his head. He had a stubborn, mulish pout on his face. I moved toward him purposefully. He narrowed his eyes and watched me approach then, when I was about six feet away, moved deliberately toward the door. I followed him, and this time he moved into the kitchen. Good. Instead of trailing him, I moved to block the other exit, then when he tried to retrace his steps, I put on a burst of speed and trapped him in the corner. I herded him in, tighter and tighter, until my body was almost touching his and my arms, hands flat on the walls, bracketed him.   
  
“Are you ready to come to bed now, willingly, or do I have to make you?”  
  
“Make me.” In a sinuous movement, he turned sideways and jabbed his elbow into my stomach hard, then dropped to his knees and tried to slither between my legs to freedom.   
  
That hurt, but I wasn’t going to let a little pain stop me from winning. I grabbed for him and got an upper arm, pulled him up a little, then grabbed his other wrist. I lifted him to his feet, and he came up twisting and squirming, punching me with his free fist on any part of me he could reach. I was going to show bruises tomorrow. So would he, I thought, as I tightened my grip on his upper arm. “Had enough?”  
  
The mulish look was back on his face. “No.”  
  
“All right, remember, this was your decision,” and I dropped my grip on his wrist, quickly wrapped my arm around him, and pulled him to my chest, hard. He gasped as I forced the wind out of him. As soon as I was sure he was secure, I let go of his arm and ran that hand down his body to cup his ass. He squirmed again. I shifted, pushed my hand between our bodies, and grabbed his rigid dick. This time his frantic squirming rubbed his dick back and forth against my hand. (Jesus, I am so hard. Gotta unzip.) “Feels to me like you want to get fucked, little boy.”  
  
“Do not.” He was gasping.  
  
“Tsk, tsk. Defiance _and_ lying. That’s bad, you know that, don’t you? Tell me you know you’re bad, and I may go easy on you.”  
  
“Not bad.” He could barely speak. I’m thinking about how he must have felt, naked and vulnerable, pressed up against my fully clothed body, with my hand around his cock. (Ah, that’s better.)  
  
I moved, changing my grasp from his body to his wrists, pulled them together, and held them over his head with one hand. He was flushed and sweating and extremely excited, I saw. I hit him amidships with one shoulder. As he bent over, I got my shoulder under him, released his wrists, and stood up with him over my shoulder. I staggered badly – he’s solid weight – but managed to stay upright. I pinned his legs to my chest with one arm and, with the other, started teasing his crack. At first, he pummeled my back but then, as I lurched toward the bed, he stuck one hand down the back of my pants, searching for my asshole. Bad. Very bad.  
  
I dumped him on the bed, quickly flipped him on his stomach, and straddled his hips. I unsnapped my jeans and pushed them down far enough to get my cock fully out. “You know what’s going to happen now, don’t you?” (I gotta pause here.)  
  
He nodded, rubbing his face against the duvet.  
  
“I’m going to have to punish you so that you never do this again. Do you understand?”  
  
More nods. I sat back between his legs.  
  
“Up on your knees.”  
  
Nothing.  
  
“NOW.”  
  
He flung his arms out and pushed up on his knees, his face pressing into the duvet. I was already rolling on the condom and lubing it. “You know why this has to hurt, don’t you?”  
  
He nodded.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“’Cause I was bad.” (Oh, damn. God. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.)  
  
(Wait a moment. Where are the tissues?)  
  
“Right.” It came out more like a grunt than a word, as I pushed against the resistance of his sphincter, my jeans scraping against his thighs. Justin gave a high-pitched whine, and I pushed again. Another whine, even higher. Then a third hard, sustained push and I was in. I didn’t give him any chance to adjust, but pulled out and slammed back in again, moving him up the bed. And again and again, until finally he was bracing his arms against the head of the bed. He was making some sort of god-awful howling whine every time I pounded into him, but as soon as he had traction, he started pushing back, driving me deeper on each in-stroke. I was getting very, very close. (My God, I’m actually getting a little hard again) I grabbed his leaking dick and started to jerk him off. He stiffened and then shuddered in orgasm, pulsing around me. My body convulsed in response as my orgasm followed his, blanking out the world and turning me into, for a moment, a primitive, unthinking, vital animal.  
  
Later, spooned together, his back to my front, I murmured, “And when you are bad, you are very, very good.”  
  
His only response was a chuckle. He was already half-asleep.  
  
God, I miss Justin.  



	15. Chapter 15

  
Author's notes:   


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**August 31st, 2006 – New York  
Listening to: Rufus Wainwright – **[This Love Affair](http://rapidshare.de/files/8818904/03_This_Love_Affair.m4a.html)  
  
I know it’s a cliché but it does seem true that the older one gets, the faster time seems to go by. Gus, little baby Gus, is turning six. Of course this would also mark an important date for Brian and me; that is if there was a Brian and me.   
  
The invitation to Gus’s party arrived on Monday, and I had been putting off the conversation that I knew I had to have with Lindsay ever since. I was hoping she would gracefully accept my regret at not being able to attend and leave it at that. No such luck. Brian’s going to have a shit fit when he gets wind of this conversation and my plans for his son. But I’m tired of living my life wondering what effect my actions are going to have on him. If he doesn’t like it…fuck him.   
  
It all started when I called Lindsay this morning and after exchanging pleasantries, I asked her what Gus might like as a gift from me.   
  
_“Don’t worry about that!” she responded. “He will get plenty of gifts from his friends. Just having his Uncle Justin here for a couple of days will be enough. You know he adores you.”_  
  
“Thanks Lindsay, I feel the same way about him but, as much as I’d love to see him…see all of you…I can’t be there.”  
  
 _“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that Justin. Gus will be so disappointed. Is it a money thing, sweetie? Because if it is, we can get you up here, and you know we would want you to stay with us. It wouldn’t cost you a dime.”_  
  
“No, it’s not that. I’m doing fine, really. It’s just…”  
  
 _“Brian?”_  
  
“Kinda…well…yeah.”  
  
 _“Justin, did you two have another fight?”_  
  
Another fight? I wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but I really didn’t want to get into this with her. I didn’t want people taking sides, particularly Lindsay. She’s his son’s mother, for Christ sake, and probably the only woman besides Deb he has ever really loved. That’s why I have not said one word about this entire fucked up mess to her, Mel, or anyone for that matter. Now I had to start.   
  
“Lindsay, how much do you know about what’s going on between Brian and me?”  
  
 _“Well, you know how tight lipped Brian is about his personal life. He did tell me months ago that he missed your show and that you were pretty upset which, by the way, was perfectly understandable. I told him I was going to call you then, but he threatened me with my life if I became involved in any way. Last I heard, he was headed to New York in June, and he led me to believe he would be seeing you. I assumed you two had everything worked out. Gosh, he even said he bought your painting a few weeks ago at the Center’s fundraiser.”_  
  
My heart sank. I understood him not wanting other people involved in our personal business but Jesus, there was no US anymore. How long is he going to expect to string everyone along?  
  
“Lindsay, I’ll be honest with you. I haven’t said anything because it still hurts like hell to discuss. And, like Brian, I don’t want to get other people involved. But, you and Gus are his family and you have a right to know. Brian and I are over.” My voice was starting to shake just saying that last sentence out loud. “We haven’t spoken since the day after the show.”  
  
 _“What? That was months ago! He went to New York, didn’t he?”_  
  
“Yeah, but that was for business. He never called.”  
  
 _“That’s absurd, even for him!”_  
  
“I know. He doesn’t want a long distance relationship, Lindz. I don’t think he wants a relationship at all. I’m realizing that slowly but surely and I’m getting through it, but I can’t handle seeing him under those circumstances, not yet at least.”  
  
 _“Honey, I’m so sorry.”_  
  
“I know, and I thank you for that. I just want you also to know that I would love to see Gus on his birthday but Brian is his father. It’s his place to be there, not mine.” And now the tears were falling and my voice couldn’t hide it. Fuck.   
  
_“Justin, it’s okay. We’ve told you before we love you as much as we love Brian.”_ Then with a slight chuckle she added, _“In Mel’s case, more.”_ I sniffed and let out a little laugh myself at that. _“You of all people should know it’s not blood that ties this crazy family of ours together. Whether you stay with Brian or not, you will always be Gus and JR’s Uncle Justin. I certainly understand where you are coming from however, and I do not want to add to the pain you are already feeling.”_  
  
“Thanks Lindsay, I appreciate that.”  
  
 _“Is there anything I CAN do?”_  
  
“Just tell Gus that I love him and wanted to be there.”  
  
 _“I will, but you know, that’s hard for a six year old to understand. Any chance of getting you up here some other time…soon?”_  
  
“Well, how about I come up the following weekend, or better yet, you send him down here. Once they are six, they can fly unattended. It’s non-stop and I’d pick him up at the airport.”  
  
 _“Oh Justin, that would be a lovely birthday gift. He’d be over-the-moon!”_  
  
“It’s a deal then. I get him the weekend of the 23rd. The ticket’s on me. Can you take him out of school on Friday?”  
  
 _“I’m sure that can be arranged.”_  
  
“Okay, I’ll get on-line and make the arrangements and e-mail you the specifics. He’ll be escorted, of course. I’ll pick him up at JFK early on Friday and have him back to you by dinnertime on Sunday.”  
  
 _“Are you sure you’re up to this?”_  
  
“Lindsay, this is the best news I’ve gotten in a long time. I can’t wait.”  
  
 _“All right then, thank you very much, Justin.”_  
  
“I don’t know if Brian’s going to be cool with this.”  
  
 _“Brian has nothing to do with this. Don’t worry, I’ll handle him.”_  
  
“Okay…have fun!”  
  
 _“Thanks a lot, talk to you soon.”_  
  
So the conversation that I so didn’t want to make ended up all right after all. And you know what? I think my life is going to do the same.   
  
  
**August 31st, 2006 – Kinnetik**  
Listening to: Sum 41 - [Pieces](http://rapidshare.de/files/8818982/04_Pieces.m4a.html)  
  
Time for a break. Today has confirmed to me that relationships are more trouble than they’re worth. They take up hours better spent working or fucking, they screw with your mind, and they stir up emotions better left unstirred.   
  
_Case in point: Lindsay called me earlier._  
  
Me: Yeah?  
  
Lindsay: Brian! How are you?  
  
Me: What’s on your mind, Lindz?  
  
L.: Just wondering how you are and what’s happening with you.  
  
Me: I’m fine and nothing.  
  
L: Nothing?  
  
Me: Nothing’s happening with me except that my deadline for a proposal is 10:30 tomorrow morning, I want it finished before I leave the office, and I’d like to get home before midnight. Other than that, nothing’s happening. I’ll call you back, O.K.?  
  
L. Yeah, right. Just like you always do. This won’t take long. I just wanted to remind you that we’re celebrating Gus’ birthday on Saturday the 16th.  
  
Me: Lindsay, I know. Cynthia knows. It’s on my calendar. I’ll be there.   
  
L: I just talked to Justin.  
  
Me: Good. At least he’s making enough money to pay his telephone bill.  
  
L.: Brian, he’s not coming. He doesn’t want to see you.  
  
 _I didn’t answer her. What was I going to say? I’m not going into big explanations with Lindsay, especially not on the phone._  
  
L.: What’s going on with you two?  
  
Me: Nothing’s going on with “us two.” Nothing at all.  
  
L.: Justin said that he hasn’t spoken to you since right after his show.  
  
Me: And? Your point is?  
  
L.: I know you missed his show, but I assumed…I guess I more or less hoped…you’d made it up.  
  
Me: Time passes, people change, people grow apart. We’ve grown apart. Deal with it. I am.  
  
L.: Justin isn’t dealing very well. He was crying on the phone.  
  
 _What the fuck? He was crying on the phone? He’s the one who’s moved on, he’s the one with the new boyfriend, yet somehow he’s the one getting all the sympathy. I’d love to know how that works._  
  
Me: So he was having a bad day, Lindz, and he went all emotional on you. You can thank your lucky stars that I’m not going to do that, now or ever. What I am going to tell you is that I HAVE seen him since the show, even if we didn’t talk, and believe me, he wasn’t crying. He’s fine. I’m fine. I appreciate your concern, but just STAY OUT OF THIS.   
  
L.: I just want the best for you and for Justin, and you are each other’s best. I hate to see you apart.  
  
 _Now what the fuck was I supposed to say to that? I hate like hell to see us apart, too, but it wasn’t my decision. I shouldn’t…can’t…hold a 22-year-old kid to a commitment he was too young and inexperienced to make. Furthermore, this conversation was giving me a headache I didn’t have time for._  
  
Me: You also want me in Gus’ life, don’t you? Don’t do or say anything that will make that impossible. You are treading on dangerous ground, Lindsay. Don’t. Don’t meddle anymore. In the meantime, if Justin doesn’t want to see me at the moment, no problem. Tell him he can come to the party, and I’ll have Cynthia reschedule me for the 23rd. Now I’ve got to hang up and get cracking on this fucking proposal.   
  
L.: No, no. Brian! Don’t hang up! The 23rd won’t work. Justin isn’t coming on the 16th; we already made arrangements for Gus to fly to New York on the 23rd and spend the weekend with Justin. Please, please. We’re counting on you joining us on Saturday. Gus is counting on it.  
  
 _I pinched my nose. I could feel the pain starting behind my eyes. I fumbled for the ibuprofin in my right-hand desk drawer._  
  
Me: Okay, let me get this straight. Justin doesn’t want to see me; Justin isn’t coming to Gus’ party; Justin is seeing Gus the following weekend; you knew I’d be there Saturday; you called me…why?  
  
L.: I told you: I was worried about you and Justin. But, okay, that’s it. I’m butting out. No more trying to fix what you two have screwed up…again. I promise.  
  
Me: (Sigh) Thanks, Lindz. I really have to hang up now.   
  
L.: You aren’t upset that Gus is going to spend the weekend with Justin, are you?  
  
 _Amazing. Where the fuck does she come up with this stuff? Does she think that because Justin left me, he’s going to desert Gus’, too? That’s when I’d be upset._  
  
Me. Where the fuck to do you come up with this stuff, Lindsay? What the hell does it matter to me if Gus sees Justin, as long as it doesn’t interfere with any plans of mine? Hell, I’m happy Justin is going to keep on seeing Gus, even if he’s too lesbianic to be a good male role model for the kid.  
  
L.: You’re sure?  
  
Me: Yes. *Click*  
  
 _I think there’s a market niche for injectable ibuprofen. The fucking capsule form took way too long to work._  



	16. Chapter 16

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

 

 

**September 8th, 2006 - New York  
Listening to: Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers - **[Learning to Fly](http://rapidshare.de/files/8819045/05_Learning_to_Fly.m4a.html)  
  
 **HOLY SHIT!!!**  
  
Mom called three days ago and said a letter had arrived from Rome and she was forwarding it here. From the size she described, I assumed it was a polite rejection. Honestly, I had pretty much put this possibility out of my mind. Now I don't know what to do.   
  
Right now, she and I are the only ones who know and that's the way I want it to stay. If I don't go, no one ever needs to find out I even applied. And, if I do go, they will all be aware of it soon enough.  



	17. Chapter 16.1

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**Friday, September 22, 2006**  
  
“Uncle Justin!”  
  
Gus was tugging at the flight attendant’s hand and waving frantically with the other one while trying to rush through the crowd of arriving passengers. Oh, that face. A miniature Brian if there ever was one. I knew the minute I saw him that I could never completely sever the tie I had to his father. It would be impossible to erase this little boy from my life. I shuddered to think how difficult future holiday gatherings were going to be.   
  
As he drew close, I knelt and he flung himself into my open arms. “Hey, Bud, did you have a fun time on the airplane?”   
  
“Yes, and look what I got!” he replied excitedly as he pointed to the plastic wings they had pinned on his jacket.   
  
“Cool!” I was fumbling for my wallet to produce the identification I needed to prove I was indeed the right person to turn him over to. Gus had been escorted off the plane by a very handsome blond man with the name ‘Sean’ pinned to his blazer. Not my type but definitely his dad’s. Sean carefully compared my license to the information Lindsay had filled out in Toronto. “Thank you, Mr. Taylor,” he stated, “have a nice holiday with your nephew.”   
  
At that remark Gus felt the need to clarify, “He’s not really my uncle…he’s gonna be my dad.” _Whoa, Gus!_ Sean smiled, “Are you adopting?” Boy, did this catch me off guard. All I got out was a dumbstruck, “Um,” before Gus was continuing, “He’s gonna marry my other dad.” Sean looked at me knowingly and nodded, “I see, well, congratulations and you have fun here, Gus.” “Thanks,” I told him blushing. _And thanks to you, too, Brian._ Obviously he still didn’t feel the need to clarify our relationship to Lindsay and his son when he visited them last weekend. Guess I would have some explaining to do.   
  
Since Gus was only going to be staying for a couple of nights we didn’t have to wait for luggage. Everything he’d need - pj’s, three shirts, an extra pair of pants, a sweatshirt, his toothbrush and plenty of socks and underwear - fit nicely in the backpack. Ah, the efficiency of lesbians. Had Brian sent him we would have been headed down to the luggage carousel to pick up a duffel bag the size of Texas. We headed to the exit doors, and luckily I caught sight of a restroom sign. I made sure Gus used it before our hour trip back to my apartment. It was nearly 3:00 by the time we got onto the correct Airport bus to Grand Central.   
  
“Will this take us to yours and my dad’s house, Uncle Justin?” Gus asked as we boarded, and I handed the driver our tickets.   
  
What? I looked at him as he settled into his seat and explained, “Your Daddy doesn’t live here, Gus, remember? We all live in different places now. You live in Toronto; I live in New York, and your Daddy lives in Pittsburgh.”  
  
“But Daddy’s house in Pittsburgh is your house too, so I thought your house would be Daddy’s. That’s called sharing, Uncle Justin. Daddy says you’re ‘sposed to share.”  
  
 _You do, huh, Brian?_ I smiled at him, “Oh, you are absolutely right, Gus. When your daddy comes to New York, I’ll be more than happy to share.” Time to change the subject.  
  
“So, are you hungry?”  
  
“Yes! I’m starving!” He more or less screamed. Now everyone on the bus knew.  
  
“What shall we have? This is your birthday celebration so you get to pick.”  
  
With that, his eyes grew wide, “MCDONALDS!” He yelled back. This was going to be a long weekend.  
  
The bus chugged along through midday traffic while we discussed the merits of Sponge Bob Squarepants, and whether or not I felt his moms would let him have a Roboraptor for Christmas. As we pulled into Grand Central, Gus was momentarily astounded by the size of mine and daddy’s domicile. “Wow!” was all he could exclaim as his eyes grew twice the normal size. “You’ve got a McDonalds at your house!”  
  
I laughed, “Sorry to disappoint you, Gus, but this was just the first part of the trip to my, I mean our, place. This is where the bus stops, but we can eat here if you like, and then we will take a cab to the Village.”   
  
“OK…you live in a village? Like the hobbits?”  
  
“Ah…no, not quite. It’s just a name people call my neighborhood. Does your neighborhood have a name?”  
  
He pondered this as we walked toward Mickey D’s and was still deep in thought when the girl behind the register asked what he’d like.   
  
“Gus,” I broke his train of thought, “the lady asked what you would like to eat.”  
  
“McNuggets, fries, orange drink and ice cream,” he beamed.  
  
“Let’s hold off on the ice cream, partner, till the meal is finished, OK?” I asked and continued, “I’ll have a number one with a coke to go with that.”   
  
“He’s cute,” the girl said as she took my money, “Is he yours?”  
  
I’ve often heard that children, cute children at least, are real chick magnets. Just what I needed.   
  
With my usual intelligence and grace, I stammered “Um…yeah,” before Gus took over. “He’s my uncle for now but when he marries my daddy, he will turn into my other dad.”   
  
“Too bad,” she smiled as she handed me my change. I just shook my head and accepted it along with the fact that this kid had been here all of 30 minutes and already had the upper hand. That he inherited from his father. And somehow, it seemed he had managed to inherit Michael’s conversational skills.   
  
With food in hand we settled into the least messy spot I could find. If Brian only knew, he’d have my balls. With that pleasant image settling into my brain, I bit into my Big Mac. Midway through our meal Gus looked up at me and exclaimed, “Jeffrey!”   
  
“Jeffrey?” I looked around quizzically, “You know someone here?”  
  
“No, that’s the name of my neighborhood, OK?”  
  
I nearly spit my coke across the room. Clearly I needed more practice dealing with the thought processes of six year olds.  
  
“OK, Gus…Jeffrey it is.”  
  
We finished and I purchased the promised ice cream before heading out and hailing a cab. “29 East 10th Street,” I told the driver. “This won’t take too long Gus. We should be there by the time you finish your cone.”  
  
The stops and starts, jerking and careening turns of a typical New York cab ride were old hat to me, but I had not considered the effect they might have had on an uninitiated six-year-old who had just downed a grease and sugar laden meal. Half of the ice cream was finished, and the other half was drying on my pant leg by the time we pulled up to my door. Gus, god bless him, was looking a little green as I exited the back of the cab and held out my hand to help him.  
“I don’t feel so good, Uncle Justin,” were the only words he managed to get out before the partially digested mixture of his happy meal made a re-appearance on my shoes. FUCK. I threw a twenty dollar bill at the driver as he sped away, leaving me holding a shocked and tearful Gus on the sidewalk.   
  
“I’m sorry, Uncle Justin.”  
  
“It’s OK, little man,” I hugged him. “They’re only shoes.” I delicately undid the laces of my favorite high tops, removed them and shook them against the curb. “They’re washable and so are we. Are you feeling better?”  
  
“Yeah,” he replied with a sniff.   
  
“All right then, let’s get you inside, get our clothes in the wash and jump in the shower.”  
  
“OK!” he said excitedly. Catastrophe number one was dealt with. Damn, I got this parenting stuff down, I foolishly thought.   
  
I let him in the front door, led him to the back of the lobby and onto the small elevator that took us to the fifth floor. I deposited my shoes in my kitchen sink and took Gus to the bathroom so he could brush his teeth. While he was in there, I unpacked his bag and took him his pj’s. It was only around 5:00 but I figured we already had enough excitement for one day.   
  
Teeth brushed, we both stripped and I turned on the shower. It was then that I realized Gus’s current height compared to my height put him spot on with parts of my body I really didn’t want near his face. How the hell does Brian do this? Thank God I also have a tub at this place. “Know what, Gus? I think I’d rather take a bath. Do you think we can both fit?”  
  
“Yup,” he assured me and then asked, “Can we have bubbles?”  
  
“Sure.” _Bubbles…bubbles, what the fuck to I have to make bubbles with?_

I found my shampoo, my $35 a bottle shampoo, took off the cap, filled it and handed it to Gus. “Dump this in there.” At that moment, my phone, which was lying on my bed, rang. I set the bottle down on the edge of the tub and told Gus, “Watch the water and when the bubbles reach this point,” I indicated a spot on the tub about two inches under the faucet, “push this knob in to shut it off.”  
  
“OK,” he responded and I was off.   
  
“Hello.”  
  
“Justin, is that you? This is Lindsay.”  
  
 _Fuck, I never called her when Gus landed._ “Oh, hi, Lindz. Sorry I didn’t call yet. Gus is here, he’s fine, and we’re having a great time.”  
  
“Oh, Thank God, Justin. I was worried.”  
  
“I’m so sorry; that was stupid of me. His flight arrived right on time, we stopped and ate, and now we are back at my place. “  
  
“Did we send enough clothes? I’m concerned he will be warm enough. It’s already getting pretty cold here. How’s the weather there?”  
  
 _Oh damn, this was not the time for small talk._ “It’s fine, Lindz. His clothes are fine. If not, I’ll buy him something, OK? But, um, I really can’t talk right now, Lindz. Can I call you right back?”  
  
“Well, sure, or can I just talk to him?”  
  
And then, just at that moment, a scream…”AHHHH! UNCLE JUSTIN…HELP…HURRY!”  
  
F U C K !!!!!!!!!  
  
“Justin – What’s going on?”  
  
“Gotta go, Lindsay. I’ll call you right back. I promise!”  
  
I dropped the phone and ran, naked, down the hall. _Wait, why is my carpet wet?_

  
I reached the bathroom door to the sight of Gus, now standing in water, frantically pounding on the faucet shut off valve. Bubbles, lots of bubbles, were flowing over the side of the tub and onto the floor.   
  
Holy Jesus. “Hang on, Gus,” I placed my hand on his chest and backed him away while I grasped the valve in my other hand and gave it a hard push. Damn, that WAS hard. He looked terrified and I figured the best thing I could do at this point was just laugh. I turned and sat down on the edge of the tub and fished my hand in to lift out the plug. “Well, we got bubbles didn’t we?” I gasped. “Where’s the shampoo bottle?”   
  
“In there.” He pointed to the tub. “It jumped in when I was trying to turn the water off.”  
  
“Oh.” And right then, for an instant, the thought of calling Brian and apologizing for any thing I ever did or am ever going to do to piss him off seemed quite sane. I would then beg him to get his ass on the first flight out and come take care of the both of us. This parenting shit is for the birds. Deep breath. So much for my expensive shampoo that was now flowing down the drain. I was quite certain a dollar bottle of Suave would never have taken the leap.  
  
“OK, let’s regroup here,” I told Gus. “Sit tight and let this water drain. There is way too much shampoo in it right now to be of any use to us, and we probably need to wait a little while till my water heater regenerates.” He was shivering now so I scooted him out the door and to my bedroom. “Crawl in for a few minutes and warm up.” I told him. “I’m going to mop up the bathroom floor. “  
  
He happily complied, and I noticed my phone lying on the bed where I had dropped it. As much as I didn’t want to do this, I really needed to call Lindsay. Ignoring the fact that she just heard her son screaming in the background wasn’t going to make the matter go away.   
  
Before I did, I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at Gus. “I’m gonna call your mom, Gus, and let her know everything is fine. She’s going to want to talk to you and…” Oh what’s the use, I thought. She’s gonna find out what a fuck up I am regardless, it might as well come from me.   
  
“And what, Uncle Justin?” Gus asked.   
  
“Nothing. Forget it. I’m just going to talk to her for a minute, and then I’ll give you the phone. “   
  
I dialed Lindsay’s number, and she answered on the first ring.   
  
“Justin!” Her voice was frantic.   
  
“Yeah, it’s me. Calm down, Lindz. We’re fine. I screwed up but we are fine. I’ll let you talk to Gus in a minute. I just wanted to tell you that I took him to eat at McDonalds and then on a cab ride and he threw up and then we came home to clean ourselves up and the water overflowed in the tub and now I have to go mop it up. So here’s your son and I’m sorry.”  
  
I handed him the phone before she could say anything and went to the hall to gather some towels. I could hear him happily jabbering away as I was on my hands and knees sopping up water.   
  
“Uncle Justin”, I turned and looked over my shoulder. Nice. Gus is getting an eye full of my ass and balls. _Be sure you tell your mom THAT, Gus._ I sat back on my heels quickly and turned.   
  
“My mom wants to talk to you.” Great.  
  
He handed me the phone and smiled.  
  
“Yes?” I asked weakly. She was giggling. “Sounds like you two are having a wonderful time there, Uncle Justin.”   
  
“Couldn’t be better, mom,” I mocked her.   
  
“Welcome to life with a six year old. I have every confidence in you. Unless there is a real emergency, you don’t have to call me until he’s safely in the air. OK?”  
  
“OK, thanks, Lindz. I promise I won’t forget.”  
  
“Yeah, right. Love you.”  
  
“Love you too. Bye.”  
  
I smiled and turned off the phone. I didn’t want to hear from anybody else tonight anyway. Well, I take that back. I wanted to hear from one person, but he wasn’t about to call me.   
  
“All right, Gus, should we try this again?” I asked, “How about a quick shower for you and then an even quicker one for me?” I turned the water back on and adjusted the temperature. That’s the nice thing about my small tank. It didn’t take long to heat back up.  
  
He stepped in and said, “You can come in, too, Uncle Justin, it’s big enough.”   
  
“That’s OK, Gus. I better stay out in case the phone rings.”  
  
“But you just turned it off.”  
  
 _Smart little shit._ “Oops, my mistake!” I picked the phone up and switched it back on. “Just suds up quick and rinse off and then I’ll do the same.”  
  
And somehow, miraculously, we managed to do just that.   
  
In ten minutes we were washed and dried with him in his pj’s and me in my sweats. He sat up at my breakfast bar coloring as I heated up some chicken noodle soup. I figured, considering the outcome of his last meal, this was my safest bet. He ate it with crackers as I popped some popcorn.   
  
“So how are you liking school, Gus?” I asked as he slurped.   
  
“It’s OK.”  
  
“Just OK? I seem to recall you really liked your school in Pittsburgh.”  
  
“Well, school is fun, but some of the kids are mean.”  
  
“Mean?” I questioned, “To everybody or just you?”  
  
“Just me, I guess.”  
  
“What’s going on, Gus? Did you tell your moms?”  
  
“No, it’s about them.”  
  
Oh God, I thought. This is the kind of shit they moved to Canada to avoid.

  
“Are kids picking on you because you have two moms, Gus?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Aren’t there any other kids in your class with two moms?”  
  
“Yeah, Cassie and Hillary have two moms, but they’re girls. Kyle Stevens says only girls have two moms so I must be a girl.”  
  
“But you have a dad, too, Gus. Did you tell him that?”  
  
“Yeah, I told him I’m gonna have two dads, but he doesn’t believe me. Do you think that you and daddy could come to my school and show him sometime?”  
  
Oh, man, my heart was breaking. I hadn’t told him - or anyone, for that matter -that I might be leaving for Rome in a few weeks.   
  
“I’d like to Gus, but I might not be able to right away. Maybe not even till next school year.” He looked so disappointed. “Have you talked to your dad about this?”  
  
“No. Kyle just started picking on me.”  
  
“Well, I tell you what. How about we take lots of pictures of us together this weekend, and you can show them to that mean Kyle Stevens and then, the next time your daddy comes to visit, if he’s still picking on you, you tell him. I can guarantee you that if you do, your dad will see to it that it Kyle never bothers you again. “  
  
“How will he do that?” Gus asked warily.  
  
“Your dad can do anything Gus. He’ll think of a way, believe me.”   
  
“OK. Uncle Justin?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“When I show everybody the pictures of you and me, can I tell them you are my other dad?”  
  
Oh shit. Fuck it. “You tell them whatever you want Gus. I’ll back you up.”  
  
“Thanks…dad!” he beamed.   
  
I washed up the dishes as he settled on the couch with a bowl of popcorn. I’m afraid my movie selection didn’t include much for a six year old, but thankfully an old VHS of Ghostbusters kept us both sufficiently entertained. It was over at about eight, and Gus was nodding off.   
  
“Bedtime, partner,” I said as the credits rolled.  
  
“Will you sleep with me?” he asked.  
  
“Sure.” I carried him to my bed and crawled in beside him. When I was sure he was fast asleep, I wiggled back out and here I am. I love him. I love having him here and like it or not, I still love his dad. A year ago we were planning our wedding, and now I’m planning a move. Oh, well, if things can change that fast one way, who’s to say what the next year will bring. For this weekend at least I’m going to enjoy Gus and the big day we have ahead of us tomorrow. Think I’ll catch the late news and hit the sack. It’s good to have somebody warming the bed in there for me.  



	18. Chapter 16.2

  
Author's notes:   


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**Sunday, September 24, 2006  
New York**   
  
I woke yesterday morning to the sounds of, “Dad…dad…are you asleep?” being whispered in my ear. Turning my head, I blinked and tried to focus. It was still fairly dark in my room, but the numbers on the alarm clock glowed 6:17. My mind had not yet registered what I just heard. Dad? What the fuck? And then I saw him and remembered. Gus. Sweet.  
  
“Mornin’, Gus,” I choked out.  
  
“Are you awake now?” he asked gleefully.  
  
“Guess so, but it’s really early, you know.”  
  
“I gots to go potty.”  
  
“It’s okay, you can go,” I yawned.  
  
“But it’s dark out there. Don’t you have to go too?”  
  
“Yeah, sure,” I said rubbing my eyes with my fingertips and continuing up to run my hands through my hair. Guess I shouldn’t have stayed up so late last night, considering my houseguest. I sighed and rolled out of bed sporting morning wood. Naturally it was the first thing Gus zeroed in on.  
  
“What’s in your pants?” h asked innocently as we walked down the hall to the bathroom. Welcome to day two of the Gus and Justin show, I thought.  
  
“Ah, just my penis, Gus.”  
  
“How come it’s sticking up like that?”  
  
 _This can’t be headed anywhere good._ “It’s just something that happens when guys sleep.”  
  
“Not to me,” he stated matter-of-factly.  
  
“It will, but you have to be a little bit older.”  
  
“Does it happen to daddy?” he asked innocently.  
  
I couldn’t help but laugh, “Why yes, Gus, yes, it does.”  
  
“Just in the morning?”  
  
“No, it happens at other times too.” _Probably shouldn’t have said that but the words were out of my mouth before my brain engaged._ We were standing in front of the toilet now and Gus was positioning himself.  
  
“Why?”  
  
Oh shit, where am I going with this? I tried to get out of it the easy way.  
  
“’Cause that’s just the way boys are made.”  
  
“Why?” Didn’t work.  
  
“Well, a man’s penis needs to do that in order to make a baby.”  
  
His face lit up, and his eyes grew wide at that remark. Done peeing now he turned to me, and asked enthusiastically, “Are you going to make a baby?”  
  
I let out a loud breath and tried to maintain my composure. “No, not today Gus. Besides, you need a boy and a girl to make a baby.”  
  
”Like daddy and my mom?”  
  
“Yup, just like daddy and your mom.”  
  
“How did they make me?”  
  
“Well, you know what, Gus, that’s really something they should tell you. And I think it would be a very good idea if, the next time you saw your daddy, you asked him that.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“And then do me a favor would you?”  
  
“Sure…what?”  
  
“Call me and tell me what he said, all right?”  
  
“Why, don’t you know either?”  
  
Good thing I was done pissing, or I would have wet myself.  
  
“It’s still really early Gus, do you want to go back to bed for awhile?” I asked hopefully.  
  
“I’m not tired no more.” Just what I was afraid of.  
  
“Well, it’s way too early to go anywhere, but there are probably some cartoons on. Are you hungry?”  
  
“Yeah,” he yelled as he ran down the hallway to my living room. I detoured into the bedroom to grab pillows and blankets. I deposited them on the couch, flipped the TV on and handed Gus the remote. “See what you can find.   
  
“Are frosted flakes OK?” I asked from the kitchen.  
  
“Uh-huh,” he nodded affirmatively.  
  
So, Gus and I spent the next few hours eating sugar-laden cereal and watching animated violence on TV. I'm sure neither of his parents would approve. I did cut up an apple and insist on a half of an hour of boring educational PBS programming in an attempt to live up to my newly appointed title. That was enough to get him moving and ask, "What are we going to do today?"  
  
"Well, Gus, it's your day and New York has all sorts of amazing places to visit, if you could see anything at all, what would it be?"  
  
He thought about this for a minute or two and then came up with, "Disneyland!"  
  
"Um...yeah, you see, that's in California Gus and this is New York." I grabbed my atlas off of my computer desk and opened it up to the United States. I pointed out California and showed him how far it was from Manhattan. "What else do you think would be fun?" I asked after he got the distance concept down.  
  
"Can we go see Daddy?"  
  
"Mmm, that's too far also, Bud." I pointed to Pittsburgh and dragged my finger back to New York.  
  
"I miss him," Gus said with a slight pout.   
  
"Me too," I agreed as I put my arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. "You saw him last week though didn't you?" Gus nodded. "And I'll bet you are going to see him for Thanksgiving and Christmas, right?"  
  
"Yup, mom says we are going to Grandma Debs for Thanksgiving, and Daddy is coming to our house for Christmas.” Somehow, I had a little difficulty imagining Brian sleeping at Mel & Lindz’s on Christmas Eve, but I'm sure the pay-off of seeing Gus on Christmas morning is worth it to him.  
  
"Will you come to our house for Christmas, too?” he asked, looking up. Damn, there was no way to answer this without either lying or disappointing him, and I wasn't about to set up any false hopes with a lame, 'We'll see.'  
  
"Gus, can you keep a secret?" I asked, knowing full well that he would tell me he could and then, probably just as innocently, spill the beans before I got the word out.  
  
"Uh-huh!” he nodded excitedly.  
  
"I would love to come to your house for Christmas, but this year, I'm going to be in another country." This time I opened the atlas to the world map. I traced my route from New York to Rome. "I'm going to be in a place called Italy. Nobody knows about this yet but me and you and my mom. I'm going to tell your moms and your Daddy soon. Do you think you can keep my secret until I do?"  
  
"Yes, but why are you going?"  
  
"It's for my work, Gus. I will only be gone a few months and I promise, as soon as I get back, I will come and see you, OK? It will be getting warm out when I get there, and you can take me to see that mean old Kyle Stevens. Is it a deal?"  
  
Thoughts of one upping Kyle quickly erased any melancholy feelings of missing me while I would be gone. "Okay, will you come to the park and play football with me when he's there?"  
  
"Sure," I reassured him and ruffled his hair. Obviously, he's never seen me with a football. At least I had him thinking happier thoughts and figured it would be wise to move the conversation back to the starting point.  
  
"So, since we can't go to Disneyland, or your Daddy's, is there anything else you might like to see?"  
  
"Do you have dinosaurs here?"  
  
"That I can do!" Thank God. "Let’s get dressed, brush our teeth and go see dinosaurs. I'll race you!" I said as I held him down and jumped up for a head start. He giggled and came tearing behind me. As I was pulling on my pants, a disturbing notion sprang to mind.  
  
"Hey, Gus," I yelled down the hall to the bathroom, "you know these dinosaurs aren't alive don't you?"  
  
"Duh...I'm not stupid," came his response. Suddenly he seemed like a teenager. Dressed in cargo pants, tennis shoes, a red t-shirt and navy hoodie, he almost looked like one. I think he would do Brian proud.  
  
My apartment is just a short walk to the subway and, thankfully, it was a beautiful, fall day. We grabbed the N train and once aboard and situated, Gus was enthralled with people watching. I however, was suddenly terrified. What the fuck did I think I was doing? Here I was in a city of like eight million people…a city I really wasn’t too familiar with…and I’m hauling Brian and Lindsay’s kid around it. He is my sole responsibility. What if he gets sick or hurt? Worse yet, what if I lose him? How do people with kids do this shit?  
  
My heart was racing, I was starting to sweat and my hands were clammy. This must be what a panic attack feels like, I thought to myself. Just then Gus looked at me, “Dad, are you gonna be sick like I was yesterday?” Now everyone sitting anywhere near us looked as horrified as I did. The guy who was next to me actually stood up and walked to the front of the car. I took a deep breath, shut my eyes and shook my head no. I opened them and looked down at Gus, “I’m fine. I was just thinking that’s all.”  
  
“About what?” He asked.  
  
“About making sure we stay safe today, Gus.”  
  
“Don’t worry,” he assured me, “I know all about staying safe. Want to play the ‘what if’ game?”  
  
“What’s the ‘what if’ game?” I questioned.  
  
“Well, mom usually asks me a ‘what if’ and then I tell her what I would do. Since you’re the one who’s scared, I’ll ask you a ‘what if,’ and you tell me what you would do. Don’t worry, if you’re wrong I’ll help you, ‘kay?”  
  
“Okay,” I smiled.  
  
“What if you’re walking home from school alone and a stranger asks you if you want a ride?” he asked enthusiastically.  
  
“I tell him no and run in the opposite direction, or I run toward people. I shouldn’t be walking home from school alone anyway, right?” I asked.  
  
“Right,” he confirmed. “But what if the stranger tells you that I sent him to get you because I was sick or hurt or needed you?”  
  
“Um, I wouldn’t believe him because I know you would never do anything like that?”  
  
“Wrong, you’re supposed to ask him the secret words. If mom ever had to send somebody for me, she would tell them the secret words and then I’d know I was safe. I think you need to know our secret words.” He looked around covertly and then motioned with his finger for me to lean down. I did and he cupped his hands to my ear and whispered, “Raspberries and Bumblebees.”  
  
“Got it,” I said, “that’s a good rule and those are good words.”  
  
“Only my moms and me and my dads know them,” he stated, “kinda like the secret you told me, huh?”  
  
“Kind of,” I told him and then asked, “But what about today, Gus? We won’t be walking home from school, what if we lose each other in a building or a park somewhere?”  
  
“I know, I know!” he was bouncing in his seat. “If we are in a building you find someone who works there and tell them you need help and I’ll do the same thing. If we are outside, in a park or something, you try to find a policeman or somebody else with kids and tell them you are lost. They will help you ‘cause mom says they know what it’s like to worry about kids.”  
  
“Hey, that’s good advice, Gus. Thanks, I feel lots better now,” I said, reaching into my wallet for one of my business cards. “Just for extra protection, take this and zip it into one of those pockets in your pants. If I’m lost, have the policeman or one of those people with kids call and find me, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” he smiled, as he slipped the card into his pocket. I did feel better now. Mel and Lindz are good mothers, just like mine. I remembered fondly the times as a kid we would be in the car, and she would quiz me. "Could you get home from here Justin? Tell me the way." I would direct her through a series of right and left turns that eventually led to my house. That night, over dinner she would tell my dad what a great job I did, and he would praise me too. Even though my dad's a dick now, I have no complaints about how they raised me. Whenever I think back on those times, I feel bad for Brian and the happy memories he is lacking. I'm glad, however, that that won't be the case for his son.  
  
We were at the 42nd Street stop now and needed to switch to the C train. Grabbing Gus's hand, we merged with the crowd and exited. "Hold on tight," I told him. Next stop, dinosaurs!   
  
The American Museum of Natural History sits at 86th Street, across from Central Park West. I checked it out a couple of weeks ago in anticipation for Gus's arrival. Lindsay told me he was on a dinosaur kick currently, and I certainly thought that was going to be his choice of venues before Disneyland and Brian's. Guess the only thing I can safely assume with Gus is that he is going to keep surprising me.  
  
My panic over misplacing him was a waste of energy. We did fine. My only regret is that I didn't bring a movie camera with me. Gus was in awe of the dinosaurs at the museum and was enthralled, as was I, at the butterfly garden. He definitely inherited Brian's generosity. Rather than purchasing something for himself at the Museum gift shop, he insisted on getting his daddy a ‘Bad Boy’ coffee mug for a Christmas gift. I had to agree, it was a perfect choice. We had a great time running around the place until both of our stomachs were growling.   
  
As we exited the museum, another idea came to me. "I know you are really hungry, Gus, but do you think you could hold out for another hour? We could run across the street and go for a carriage ride." He looked unimpressed. "With a real horse...," I continued. That changed his expression. "Yeah! Like Cinderella?"   
  
"Yup, just like Cinderella!"   
  
"Can I pet the horse?"  
  
"Sure," I promised. The light changed and we were on our way. This was a view of Central Park I dreamed of seeing with his dad. Since that probably wasn't in the cards for me, Gus would be my next choice, and I wanted this day to be as memorable for him as it was for me. We rode for about 40 minutes, and once we were deposited back at our starting point, I hailed a cab for the short ride to Serendipity. I knew their foot long hot dogs and frozen hot chocolate would be a hit with him, and they were. It was nearly two o’clock by the time we finished.   
  
In an apparent subconscious effort to get Gus on every available form of New York City transportation, we boarded a cross-town bus to traverse the park yet again, and then on to another one to get us to Times Square. What trip to New York would be complete for a six year old if it didn't include Toys R Us?   
  
We took our turn on the big Ferris wheel, checked out the Lego sculptures and spent an incredible amount time at the T Rex exhibit. This place may as well be a museum in itself. Had I checked out the toy store in advance of Gus’s visit, we may have been able to skip the first half of the day.   
  
With his benevolent side satisfied at the museum gift shop, he decided to indulge himself at this place. Several action figures and a large stuffed T Rex later, I finally convinced him it was time to go. Judging from the number of bags we were carrying out, I felt it was necessary to get a cab rather than smash ourselves and Mr. Rex into the subway. I prayed it would be a less eventful ride than yesterday’s was as I had no desire see the hotdog and frozen chocolate re-emerge.   
  
It turned out to be a fairly smooth trip, and Gus was nodding off by the time we reached my apartment. A nap didn't sound all that bad to me either. I had nothing more planned for us except a quiet evening at home, so whether he slept or not, it was no big deal. After we got in the door and deposited his purchases in the bedroom, I put my copy of Lord of the Rings in the DVD player and cuddled up with him on the couch. Fifteen minutes in, he was out. Ten minutes later, so was I.   
  
It was my cell phone, and Danny on the other end that woke us up a couple of hours later.   
  
“Justin, hey man, whatcha doin?”  
  
“Um, nothing. Just laying here.”  
  
“Wanna go out tonight?”  
  
“Can’t. Gus is here.”  
  
“Gus? Is he hot?”  
  
“Yeah, and he’s six. Too young even for you.”  
  
“Six? What is he, your brother?”  
  
“No, he’s Brian’s son.”  
  
“Brian…the Brian who fucked me at Crobar?”  
  
“That would be the one. Thanks for reminding me.”  
  
“Sorry, man. What’s his kid doing with you?”  
  
“It’s a long story. He goes back home tomorrow so we’re just hanging out tonight.”  
  
“Oh man, that’s no fun for the little guy. You’re boring. Take him to The Lion King.”  
  
“That’d be great, Danny, except, after today, I’m kind of tapped out, if you know what I mean.”   
  
“Shit, you don’t have to pay. My sister’s in the chorus. I’ve seen it a million times. I can get you tickets.”  
  
“Are you fucking serious? Your sister is in The Lion King and you never told me?”  
  
“Ah…I never took you for the musical theatre type, bro. Sorry”.  
  
“If you can get us tickets, we’re there.”  
  
“I can get you tickets, don’t worry. The show starts at eight. Get your asses down to the New Amsterdam Theater, and they will be in my name at the box office. If I can’t get them I’ll meet you there, and we’ll take the little man someplace else. You’ll know me because I’ll be the one holding his dad’s handkerchief.”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“Yeah, you wish.”   
  
“Thanks, Danny.”  
  
“Anytime.”  
  
  
Have I mentioned how much I love this town?   
  
By the time I hung up the phone, Gus was fully awake and anxious to reprimand me. “Were you mad at that man on the phone, Dad?”  
  
“No, why?”  
  
“Cause you said bad words to him.”  
  
”Oh Gus, you’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk like that. That was a friend of mine, and guess what? He might be able to get us tickets to see The Lion King tonight.”  
  
“I’ve already seen it. I’ve got it at home.”  
  
“No, this one is live. In a theater.”  
  
“They’re cartoons, Dad. They’re not really alive.”   
  
“This one is, Gus. They are people dressed like the animals. We have to hurry though, and if we can’t get into see it, I promise we will do something else fun, okay?”  
  
“Okay.” He is far more agreeable than his father.  
  
Fortified with a quick bowl of cheerios, we were out of the door within a half of an hour of Danny’s call. IT WAS MAGNIFICENT! I’d like to write ten pages about the show but I’d have to go back first since I spent a good portion of this one watching Gus. He was mesmerized. I know the feeling. I fell in love with the theater when I was just about his age and to witness it happening to him last night was magical. It will certainly give Brian one more thing to bitch about if we ever get back together. The kid is hooked.  
  
Currently he is blissfully asleep in my bed. It was a late night. Danny ended up joining us for the show, and afterward he took us back stage to meet his sister and the rest of the cast. Gus is going home with an autographed poster and a new love. I need to rouse him in about an hour and then it’s off to the airport.   
  
God, this has been one excellent weekend. Telling Gus about my future plans probably wasn’t the wisest thing to do, but I didn’t know what else to say. Guess I’ll break the news to Lindsay tonight on the phone and enlist her help to keep it a secret from Brian and the rest of the crew a little while longer. I’m not ready to deal with it yet. I want to bask in the glow of this high for a few more days at the very least.   



	19. Chapter 17

  
Author's notes:   


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**November 4, 2006 – Pittsburgh**  
Listening to: Death Cab for Cutie – [Title and Registration](http://rapidshare.de/files/9041455/06_Title_and_Registration.m4a.html)  
  
Well, well, well. “Justin Taylor has accepted a six-month fellowship” in Rome. As in Rome, Italy. I just hope to hell he’s going to Italy with a goal in mind, something he wants to accomplish. I hope he’s not fleeing New York because he thinks he’s failing there. That’s been his pattern.  
  
He couldn’t flee far enough, could he? Now he’s not even on the same continent, not even in the same time zone. If I wanted to call him…which I don’t…I’d have to do a mathematical calculation to figure out exactly when I’d be disturbing him.  
  
This is one of those times I’d love to sit Justin down and make him tell me exactly what he thinks he’s doing. Then I’d kick his ass if he wasn’t doing it for the right reasons. O.K., so maybe I’d do other things to his ass but only after I kicked some sense into him.  
  
Wonder how the new boyfriend feels about this development. Justin’s leaving a trail of broken hearts behind him. Bet that golden head and non-stop ass is popular with those dark, sexy Italian boys. I’ll never know. He isn’t sharing his conquests with me any more – just one more reason I miss him.   
  
Another nail in the coffin.  



	20. Chapter 17.1

  
Author's notes:   


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**December 23, 2006  
Friday, 10:45 p.m.  
  
**I’m somewhere over Pennsylvania, with a bare hour in the air to update this. I am flying – you will note the date – to Toronto to ‘celebrate’ Christmas with Mel, Lindsay, and the gang. Do I need to say that I would rather be eaten alive by a pack of hyenas than to expose myself to the torture of holiday travel only to be subjected to even more torture upon my arrival in Toronto? Unfortunately, the munchers are holding my son hostage, so here I am, hurtling through the dark to a fate worse than death.  
  
It will be Christmas Eve, technically, by the time we land and probably close to 2:00 a.m. before I get to the hotel. Fortunately last year, at Thanksgiving, I made it clear that I don’t bunk down in anybody’s spare bedroom…not that any bedroom is spare this year, not with Carl, Debbie, Ben, Michael, and Hunter all staying at the munchers’.   
  
I’m not staying at the Sheraton Centre again, either, because…well, I’m just not staying there. Instead, Cynthia booked me into the Oakville Marriott. Why the Oakville Marriott, out in what is undoubtedly God’s country, on the shores of scenic…and freeze-your-ass-off cold…Lake Ontario? Because the Oakville Marriott is attached to the Oakville Water Park. When a water park is located alongside frigid Lake Ontario, it is indoors. Getting wet is an indoor activity in any and all seasons in the province of Ontario.   
  
At first I objected since Oakville is not around the corner from 1815 S. Sycamore Drive. Cynthia got that expression on her face that conveys clearly that she works for a moron. “Brian, do you want to be stuck in the house with Mel, Lindsay, and the rest of the gang for more than 48 hours? I didn’t think so. The water park gives you the perfect excuse to spend the day with Gus and retain your sanity at the same time.”  
  
Damn, when the woman’s right, she’s right. So I’m picking up a car at the airport and then it’s off to Oakville.  
  
 **December 25, 2006  
Sunday, 1:30 a.m.**  
  
Guess I’ll update this for yesterday’s doings while I wait for that fucking Hunter to finish rooting around in the kitchen. I’m supposed to be sleeping on the damn couch so that I’m here to enjoy every fucking second of Gus’ Christmas morning. How the hell can Hunter even think of eating, after what he put away today…! Beats me.  
  
I had breakfast at the hotel, then managed to find Sycamore Drive without getting lost. I got here about 10:30 a.m. I walked in the door, and Carl looked up. He was sitting on the couch, reading the paper. He said, “Hi,” then he bellowed, “Lindsay, Brian’s here.”   
  
Gus came hurtling out of the kitchen at top speed, through the dining room, and across the living room. I scooped him up just before he could hit me amidships and possibly do some damage. I swung him up in the air as he grinned his chipmunk grin at me. Those two front teeth are still way too big for the rest of his face. “How ya doin’, champ?” I asked.  
  
“I bin waiting for you. Maman said you were coming today, but she said you’d prob’ly be late. You’re a lazy son-of-a-gun, Mom says.”  
  
“What’s this ‘Maman’ business?”  
  
“That’s Lindz, Daddy. She wants to be ‘Maman,’ but Mel is still Mom.”  
  
 _Isn’t that Lindsay to a T? And it sounds like Mel is trying to clean up her language._  
  
“C’mon.” He was tugging at my hand.  
  
The kitchen was full of women doing woman things: Debbie, Mel, and Lindz, plus Michael, with an apron around his waist and what looked like gravy on his nose. Ben was at the table with a cup of coffee, reading to Jenny Rebecca who was bouncing on his lap. Hunter was nowhere to be seen. Smart boy, Hunter.   
  
Lindz came up to me and gave me a quick kiss, Ben waved a hand at me, and Debbie gave me a hug and said, “Merry Christmas, hon.” Mel greeted me with a simple, “Brian”, and I returned the volley with, “Mel.” Christmas truce, I guess.  
  
I said, “What, Michael, no kiss hello? Don’t you wuv me any more?”  
  
“Fuck off, Brian… Sorry, Mel. I’m trying to clean it up.”  
  
Mel snorted and shook her head.   
  
Lindsay went into gracious-hostess mode. “How was your flight up?”  
  
I said, “About what you’d expect on December 23rd. Shitty.”  
  
She was ready to continue with the quiz…I figured, “How is your room?” was next…but Gus distracted her. “Didja bring me something? Didja? What? Can I have it now? Can I?” He was dancing around us.   
  
Lindz frowned. “Gus, you know that’s impolite. Polite boys don’t ask.”  
  
I had serious doubts that Gus was a polite boy. He seemed more like a greedy boy to me. I said, “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning, Gus.” I turned to Lindz. “I’m staying at the Marriott out in Oakville. I don’t know if you’re familiar with it, but it’s attached to a big water park. I’d like to take Gus for the day. I figured that by the time we got done at the water park, he’d be ready for a n-a-p. I’ll have him back around 5:30, 6:00?” I raised my eyebrows.  
  
“N,” Gus said slowly, “A. P. Nuh…”  
  
Lindsay interrupted quickly. “Oh dear, I don’t know where Gus’ swim trunks are. If only you’d given me some warning, Brian….”  
  
Gus was distracted from his spelling bee. “Is there swimming at a water park, Daddy?” He tugged on my shirt, and I nodded, still looking at Lindz. “I want to go swimming. I really do. I never get to go swimming.”  
  
I raised my eyebrows even higher. Lindsay said, “I guess you can wear a pair of shorts, Gus. I know where those are.” She patted my arm. “Be back in a minute.”  
  
Of course, it took longer than a minute. Debbie poured me a cup of coffee, and I sat down at the table that was littered with Christmas cards. Ben sat across from me holding Jenny Rebecca. JR opened her mouth, popped several fingers in and stared at me solemnly as I absentmindedly shuffled through them.   
  
There were the typical Santas and Madonnas and snow covered scenes, and then there was Justin’s. It wasn’t a traditional Christmas card; it was a miniature work of art. He had painted an arched Roman doorway lit by the sun. Its rays were reflecting the colors of the rainbow on the worn brick floor. I picked it up to examine it more closely, and he fell out. Smiling and radiant in the Roman night. Ben watched me silently as I stared at Justin and wondered who was on the other side of that camera that made him so happy. Just then, Lindsay appeared with Gus’ backpack, and the kitchen snapped back into focus.   
  
“Besides the shorts and a pair of underpants to wear in the pool, I gave you another change of clothes, in case he spills something on himself,” she said.  
  
“Okay.” _It’s not like we are leaving for the North Pole, no matter how appropriate a destination that would be today. I think I can manage._  
  
“He misses you, you know,” she said, placing her hand over mine, holding my hand as I held the picture. I didn’t respond. Gus was already running for his coat, hat, and boots, but he wasn’t as eager to get out of there as I was. I knew that if I didn’t leave quickly, I’d say something so inappropriate and offensive that everybody there would unite in chastising me. So I followed him out to the coat closet and helped him with his gear. I almost told him to forget about the boots, I was in such a hurry, but I quickly realized that skipping the boots was going to provoke a discussion and that Lindsay might possibly be called upon to arbitrate. _Fuck it, let him wear the boots. Just let us get out of here without any discussion of my fucking 'feelings.'_  
  
The water park was a winner, expensive but with something for everybody, even elderly parents like me. The first thing you see is this enormous water slide that snakes around all over the enclosure. As soon as we got past the ticket booth, before we got to the locker area, Gus’ eyes were the size of silver dollars. “I want to go on _that_.”   
  
I looked up, up, up, and then up some more. The fucking thing is several stories high. I doubted very much that this monster water slide was what Lindsay had in mind when she entrusted Gus to me. I said, “I don’t know, Gus. I think you need to be bigger to go on that. It looks pretty scary to me.”  
  
“I do want to go on it. I saw it on TV, and it’s fun.” Damn it, he was narrowing his eyes at me, scrutinizing me. I’ve seen that expression in mirrors before. “Daddy, are you scared? Don’t be. We’ll go together.”  
  
I sighed. He had me. “As soon as we get changed, we’ll go see if you’re tall enough to go on that slide.”   
  
Of course, he was. I can never catch a fucking break. He had to wear a life jacket, then we grabbed a two-person inner tube and started walking up the steps. And walking up the steps and walking up the steps. Fortunately, there was a short line waiting for their turn at the top of the stairs, and I had a chance to catch my breath before we started down the chute.  
  
Despite a life filled with varied experiences, I’d never been on a waterslide before. The Kinney family did not do waterslides when I was a kid. We did bars and Knights of Columbus halls. As it turned out, my early education had been sadly neglected. I was in for quite a learning experience.  
  
The lifeguard at the top of slide got us situated at the head of the tube, Gus in the front, me in the back with my legs wrapped around him. “Hold on to the handles, Gus,” I said sharply, and he nodded his head.   
  
“O.K., Daddy.” I think he was a little intimidated, now that we were ready to go. I, on the other hand, was scared shitless.   
  
The lifeguard pushed us over the lip that separates the boarding area from the slide and…nothing. The water was flowing around me with a fair amount of force, but it wasn’t enough to move 6’ 2” of adult. I waited a moment, then used my feet to push us forward a foot or two, and …nothing. I looked over my shoulder at the lifeguard, and he made a gesture which I interpreted as encouragement to repeat the action. I scooted us forward a few more feet and…nothing. Now I could feel a wave of water building up behind me – and finally we started to move slowly down the tube.   
  
Very shortly after we started moving, I realized another interesting fact about adults in waterslide tubes. Once we start moving, our greater weight means we go faster than, say, a 42 lb. six-year-old. Another few yards, and Gus and I were flying, sometimes literally. Gus was screaming with delight, and I was worrying that I’d lose him during one of the intervals when we were airborne. I had my ankles locked around him in a death grip as the inner tube climbed the walls on the steep turns until we were almost sailing on the ceiling and floated in the air when we went over a sharp drop. I remembered reading that Canadian liability law is nowhere near as punitive as in the U.S. Maybe the Oakville Water Park got sued every so often when they lost a six-year-old and just wrote it off to the cost of doing business.  
  
After much longer than I had anticipated, we came sailing out into a long, deep pool. The inner tube rolled when it hit the water and dumped us both out. I had a moment of disorientation, but my body knew where up was even if my over-taxed brain did not, and I stood up. There was Gus, in his life vest, bobbing like a little cork and paddling his way toward the steps. “Can we do it again, Daddy? Can we?”  
  
“Look at all the other rides, Gus. I want to try some of them first.” He looked mulish, but I wasn’t backing down. Fifteen or twenty minutes of climbing steps followed by five minutes of terror was not my idea of a peak life experience.  
  
We had definitely done the worst ride…or the best, depending on how you feel about long, scary rides…first. The terror quotient of the others never approached that of the first slide. It was, however, the only one Gus and I could go down together. We slid down four more tubes: two where we lay on mats and two where we body-surfed down the tube. I was worried that Gus would be frightened when he had to go down by himself, but that was wasted emotion. The first ride we went on separately, he lay down on his little mat, said “Bye, Daddy,” and flew off down the tube all by himself. My boy is growing up.  
  
By the time we had gone on all five rides, it was 1:00 p.m. The water park had several snack bars, so I suggested lunch (and a smoke break for Daddy). Gus agreed that he was very hungry, and we bellied up to the bar for chicken fingers and a chicken Caesar salad. I was favorably impressed. My salad wasn’t haute cuisine, but it was quite tolerable. One nice Canadian touch: they sold beer and wine at the snack bar. Do I need to say whether or not I indulged in a cold one?   
  
After lunch we tried the large swimming pool. The pool had several features not found in most pools, including an area that was subject to periodic showers and ‘lily pads,’ anchored to the bottom by a long rope, for agile children to climb on. Gus wasn’t that agile yet, but he had fun trying. We cheated occasionally, and I gave him a boost up so that he could play frog for a minute or two until a bump from another child spilled him back into the water.  
  
The main attraction for Gus was a regular waterslide, similar to a playground sliding board except that it was lubricated by a gentle, continuous flow of water. I sat on the edge of the pool nearby and watched him climb up its steps, slide down, paddle back to the side of the pool, climb out, get in line…over and over. He struck up an acquaintance with two other children his age, and soon they were competing to see who could be the most daring: who could slide down on his or her stomach, head first; who could slide down backwards, and so on.   
  
After about fifteen minutes, a young blonde came over and sat down next to me. Very cute but the wrong gender, unfortunately. I had a momentary fantasy involving another blond and the locker room, then she said, “Hi. I’m Emily’s mother.”   
  
I waved at Gus. “I’m Gus’ father. Don’t know who’s the other kid is, but his name is Jason.”   
  
We chit-chatted for a short while, establishing how old our children were and their grades in school. The blonde said, “So where are you guys from?”  
  
I said, “I’m from Pittsburgh, but Gus lives here in Toronto. I’m here for the holiday.” Not an unusual situation.  
  
A small voice volunteered. “I live with my mommies at 1815 S. Sycamore Drive.”  
  
A small smile flickered across the blonde’s face. “Oh, aren’t you lucky to have two mommies.” Blondie was a nice woman.  
  
Gus nodded enthusiastically. “And I’m going to have two daddies, too, as soon as Justin comes back.”  
  
Now Blondie was somewhat nonplused. She threw me a quick, uncertain glance, but I didn’t help her out. I kept my face expressionless. “That’s nice, “ she said.  
  
“Uh-huh. They can’t get married until Justin comes back from….” He looked at me for help.  
  
“Italy,” I said. “Rome, Italy.” Blondie looked a question. “He’s an artist. He won a six-month fellowship to Rome.”  
  
“Sounds great for him, not so nice for you.”  
  
Even if the only problem had been a trans-Atlantic romance, it wouldn’t have been nice. The actuality was even less nice, but I wasn’t sharing my life story with Blondie, no matter how understanding she was. I changed the subject…asked her about herself…and as usual that deflected her interest in my affairs.  
  
Finally I could see Gus flagging, and we excused ourselves from our new friends, got dressed, and went up to my room. I had him shower, then gave him my cell to call his mothers while I took a speed shower. When I was done, I said, “Gus, I’m sleepy. Let’s lie down for a little while.” I lay down and held out my arm, and he snuggled up against me. “I miss Justin,” he sighed. “Justin is fun.”   
  
I wondered if that meant I wasn’t. Maybe Justin would have gone on more rides. I said, “No talking. I want to get some sleep.” That will help establish my reputation as the no-fun parent, I thought, but it worked. Five minutes of silence, and he was breathing slowly and deeply. Another five minutes, and I had joined him. Which may be why I’m awake now, just finishing this at 3:00 a.m. Two-hour naps just aren’t my style unless, of course, I’ve had a vigorous workout right before my nap. I’m sure I’ll regret this attack of diarrhea of the fingers tomorrow…or rather, this…morning when a fully-rested Gus arrives to rip the paper off his packages.  
  
 **December 26, 2006**  
Monday, 12:45 p.m.  
  
Once again I’m in the air, with an hour to kill. Might as well finish off my Christmas story.  
  
As expected, Gus arrived in the living room at about 6:15 a.m. My job…and none of this “should you choose to accept it” nonsense…was to stop him from opening any of his presents before all the rest of the doting relatives were downstairs to watch him, take pictures, and video the event. Have you ever tried to stand between a six-year-old and his Christmas presents? It’s a scary position to be in, let me tell you.   
  
I had to use my sternest voice to get him to go back upstairs and get his mommies up. “I’ll open just one and then I’ll go up. I promise. And a promise is a promise, Daddy.” Yeah, right. Been there, done that, kiddo.   
  
Once the serious paper ripping got started, my present was a hit. He had to be persuaded to put the “Roboraptor” to one side and keep going, or he’d never have gotten finished. There was a card in the package with the dinosaur, and I knew that was a potential problem. As soon as he started to rip the paper, I said, “Gus, give me that envelope, please,” and he obligingly held it out to me.   
  
I got up and walked over to Lindz. I said, “Here. You can explain all about this to Gus after everything’s calmed down.”   
  
She opened the envelope, peeked at the card, and gave a little gasp. “Oh, Brian, what a good idea.” She hugged me. “You will take care of him, though, won’t you?”  
  
“No, of course not. I’ll take him to the top of the most difficult run, give him a push, and tell him, ‘You’re on your own, squirt. Teach yourself to ski.’”  
  
“Seriously, Brian….”  
  
“Seriously, Maman, he’ll have a two-hour ski lesson on both Saturday and Sunday, and then we’ll ski the bunny slopes together. Don’t worry. He’ll love it and I’ll take care of him.”  
  
“I know, I know.” She leaned up and gave me a soft kiss on the lips. I happened to catch a glimpse of Mel’s scowling face over Lindsay’s shoulder, which made the kiss even sweeter.  
  
So Gus and I are going skiing over President’s Weekend. I’ll fly into Toronto Thursday night, we’ll fly to Stowe on the Friday and come home, via Toronto, on Monday. A gift of self is best, they always say.   



	21. Chapter 18

  
Author's notes:   


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**February ’07 – Rome, Italy  
Listening to: Scott Weiland – **[But Not Tonight](http://rapidshare.de/files/9041566/07_But_Not_Tonight.m4a.html)  
  
Okay, I know I should have been keeping this journal up since I arrived. However, here I am, over half way through my fellowship and I haven’t written a thing. I’m an artist, not an author damn it. But anyway, I really do want to organize my thoughts to get this whole wonderfully crazy experience into perspective. Maybe I’ll try just going month by month to catch up.  
  
 **November ’06** – This was one fast move. I was notified in early September that I got the fellowship, decided to go for it by the middle of the month, and I was over here the first week in November. It worked out perfectly with my lease however. I even got my Italian Acceptance letter in what I was told is record time: 45 days on the dot. Thankfully I never accumulated much furniture, and what I did have Danny and Alex were happy to take off my hands. I fired my worthless agent, left quite a few paintings with Jefferson to market as he sees fit, and shipped a few boxes of personal items back to Pittsburgh for safe keeping. Trevor was still in California when I left due to filming delays. We talked though, and he is pretty happy out there. I understand…so was I. I’m sure I’ll see him again someday, just don’t know when.   
  
Same could be said for Brian, too, I guess. Except the thought of seeing him still ties me up in knots. Is this how it is for everybody and their first love? Will I ever have a second? I sent him a change of address card because regardless of what happened between us, I always want him to know how he could contact me if he chooses to.   
  
I arrived in Rome on the 3rd. As a single person, I was offered a room in a building the University leases near the campus. Think studio apartment with a shared bath. Double bed, end table, desk, chair and TV on one end, miniature kitchen consisting of a tiny refrigerator, hotplate, sink and dining set for two on the other. There are four units like this on each floor, two to a side with a shared bath in each hallway. My floor houses one other artist from Scotland by the name of Jamison; Ella, a biologist from Norway; and Sergio, a writer from Northern Italy. He has been a godsend, helping the rest of us navigate the streets as well as the customs and language.   
  
On the 5th I was introduced to one of the fine art professors by the name of Carlo Scamoni. A grandfatherly man in his 60’s, he made me feel comfortable immediately. His looks betray his keen insight and incredible knowledge of cutting edge technology in the world of art. Although he would never admit to it, I believe he had a strong say in me being awarded the fellowship due to my proposed project. Since the application leaned heavily on life/work experience, I chose computer animation and how it can be used as a therapeutic tool for children with disabilities as my field of study. Unknowingly, I combined his passion for art, technology, teaching and children. He showed me around the campus, took me to my office (which is miniscule), and introduced me to the other “fellows”, two of whom I have been working closely with. Armando Guzman is a pediatric physician from Mexico City and Zotia Piotrowski is a technical writer from Poland. I felt incredibly outclassed when both spoke perfect English. It amazed me then and still does that I am in this remarkably beautiful and historical place, honing my craft and my expenses are being covered. Next time I get back to Pittsburgh, I need to track down Colin Richards and take him out for a very expensive dinner.   
  
So really, most of November was spent acclimating myself to the University and the work I would be doing. I was so busy and so in awe of everything that the month went by in a blur. Thanksgiving was nothing like last year’s as it is just another day in Italy. I ate a turkey sandwich, watched some porn, and masturbated to memories of that night in Toronto and a man who seldom leaves my psyche. On one hand, I know I was ridiculously fortunate to have met Brian when I did, but on the other, I almost regret it. How am I ever going to be satisfied with less? At least I can finally look back at our relationship without regrets or tears. The saying about things that don’t kill you make you stronger is true. I learned so much from him and I am grateful for that, and I have grown.  
  
But I still hadn’t wandered outside the walls of the University much. Rome, for all its wonders, is not the most gay friendly city in the world so I was content to play it cool and stay close to home. Boy, would that change.  
  
 **December ’06** \- I realized in early December that unless I wanted to send my mom, Molly, Deb, Gus and JR Rome University sweatshirts for Christmas, I would have to venture into one of the city’s shopping districts. After two days of trying dismally to navigate the Metro (subway) and buses, I decided I would rather take my life in my hands and purchase a motorbike. The things are as prolific as pasta around here and apparently the only motorized way to get down some of the narrowest streets on the face of the earth. Luckily, Sergio overheard me complaining and took pity on me.  
  
He recommended I visit Euro Sport Cycles, a business with a reputation of being fair with foreigners, and then escorted me just to be sure. They sell and service both new and used bikes which, frankly, all looked pretty much the same to me.   
Given the choice of what to ride, I would have picked one particular mechanic.   
  
It had been so long since I had a man that even a Babylon troll would have looked appealing, but this guy would have been spectacular in any setting. I caught him checking out Sergio and me several times while we were attempting to close the deal. At one point, I looked up, flashed him a little smile, and he immediately turned away. I guessed he wasn’t gay after all.   
  
Sergio finalized the arrangements for a used 2001 Honda motorbike and assured me it was a good deal as I handed over my credit card. He even got them to throw in new tires, but I had to wait one more day to pick it up. That was fine with me since I still had to deal with the international license application and purchase a helmet.   
  
I made my way back to the shop alone the following day and was greeted by an associate I hadn’t seen before. It immediately became evident that he couldn’t speak any more English than I did Italian, but thankfully I brought the bill of sale. “Jus-tin Tay-lor,” he slowly and carefully pronounced. Then, with a renewed sense of purpose, his face lit up with a smile, he leaned back, stuck his head through the open repair shop door and yelled, “Tonio, li suo libro bello d’oro il ragazzo qui.” I stood there smiling like an idiot while he held up one finger, which I assumed meant wait. I nodded and took a seat in the shop waiting area while several other customers glanced at me and snickered.   
  
A minute later, handsome Mr. Not Gay appeared, drying his hands on a paper towel. Was he blushing? He nodded when he saw me, and extended a hand with a questioning, “Justin?”  
  
“Yes.” I rose and shook his hand.  
  
He spoke softly, “I’m Antonio. Come on back and we’ll get your bike. There’s a few things I’d like to show you.”   
  
“OK.” As I followed him outside and behind the shop, I was thinking there were a few things I’d like to show him also.  
  
“Have you driven one of these before?”  
  
“Well, yeah, a few times.” Fuck, I immediately thought, that’s not going to buy me any time with him, so I added, “Not in Italy though.”  
  
He looked at me questioningly, “Maybe you need a lesson?”  
  
“I think so,” I smiled, and he tossed me the keys as he yelled something to his co-workers through the back door. Catcalls and whistles followed his remark, leaving me confused but hopeful.   
  
I straddled the bike, and he squeezed in behind me. “Is this thing big enough for the both of us?” I asked.   
  
“We aren’t going far,” he assured me, “just have to teach you a few rules of the road. You drive, and I’ll navigate.”  
  
“Deal.”  
  
“Take a right out of the driveway and go four blocks to Via del Orso and then take another right. There’s no stop signs between here and there, so just watch out at the intersections.”  
  
“You got it.” The bike really wasn’t made for two but I wasn’t complaining. My ass was positioned just where I wanted it to be and his thighs were clutching it tightly. I made sure I wiggled plenty while we rode, and in a matter of minutes I could feel I had my desired effect on him. His left hand came to my waist at the first turn, and he kept it there as he motioned for me to go three more blocks in the new direction with his right. Once there, he yelled over the motor noise, “Park it,” something much easier said than done around here. Another half block up, I took the first available space and turned off the engine.   
  
He hopped off, removed his helmet and shook his head, a jumble of black curls falling to his shoulders and framing his face. I took off my helmet, but stayed on the bike, looking up at him. “Well done, Mr. Taylor. Did you mean business back there, or were you just teasing me?”   
  
My eyes widened, and I could feel a flush of color come to my face. My dick was warning me that now was not the time for games. Trying not to sound too eager, I replied, “I’m open for business.”   
  
“Come on then,” he said, grabbing my wrist. “My place is back where you should have parked.”  
  
We hurried down the half a block. “You speak English beautifully,” I said in an attempt to avoid awkwardness.   
  
“Lots of tourists, lots of practice,” he replied. “Plus, we are required to take it in school. I may be just a mechanic, but I graduated from college.”   
  
Suddenly ashamed I muttered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insinuate…”   
  
“It’s okay,” he responded. “The ugly American has reared his head one too many times…causes me to jump to conclusions. My remark was uncalled for.”   
  
I figured it was best to just shut up at this point. We entered his building and up several flights of stairs. I now had more than one reason to be panting. Antonio quickly unlocked the door and motioned me inside a typical Roman flat. Small and efficient. Without a word he closed the door behind him, took my helmet from my hand and tossed it, along with his, onto the couch. Turning back to me he placed his right hand on my chest and backed me up against the wall. There, he kissed me for the first time. Hard.   
  
Just slightly taller, he leaned in and forced his tongue beyond my teeth while his hands deftly undid my belt, button and zipper. His right hand was introducing itself to my cock before our first kiss was concluded. This guy may have collaborated on the Brian Kinney operating manual. His left hand grasped for my right and entwined his fingers with mine when he found it.   
  
“This way,” he said when he broke the kiss. Antonio led me out of his entryway, past his living room area, and through a small door near the end of its far wall. His bedroom was barely large enough for a double bed, night stand and dresser but it was perfectly serviceable for the event to follow.   
  
Cool and collected be damned. It had been over five months since I had a dick in my ass and I couldn't hide my exuberance. My jacket, shirt, shoes, socks, pants and underwear were off like a prom dress. I was on the bed, on my back and leaking, before Antonio knew what hit him. Please be a top, I thought, if only for the afternoon. He smiled widely, and shook his head, “Belle d’oro il ragazzo” he muttered as he pulled off his shirt.   
  
Taking another lesson from Brian, I kept my mouth shut and catalogued that phrase for questioning later. Right now was not the time for words. Antonio opened the drawer of his nightstand to withdraw a condom. He tossed it to me while he shuffled around in the drawer for lube. He found it, turned, and sat on the edge of his bed, untying his boots and then removing them along with his socks and, finally, his pants.   
  
Kneeling, naked between my legs, his sizable, uncut penis stood at attention, waiting to be dressed. I slipped the condom on him as he leaned into me for a second kiss. I heard the flick of the lube cap when he pulled away and watched as he squeezed some of the clear gel out on two of his fingers. With his left hand positioned flat against my abdomen under my dripping cock, he locked his eyes on mine and he pushed his fingers inside. I flinched for a second or two and then concentrated on relaxing and bearing down to allow him easier entry.   
  
He smiled and muttered, "Il flore sole." With his fingers fluttering inside me, I raised my legs to his shoulders. It felt like a lifetime ago that I did this in another stranger’s room. It was a lifetime ago, when I was a fragile newborn. Now I'm a seasoned veteran and hopefully much wiser. I reached behind Antonio, pulling him in and urging him to replace his fingers with his cock. He nodded, bent his head down between us to watch as he followed my instruction.   
  
He pushed in and I gasped; excitement and relief entwined. The fuck itself was fast and hard, just the way I wanted it. I came with Antonio's fingers wrapped around my dick, my spasms following shortly after by his. He was beautiful when he climaxed, looking like one of those Botticelli cherubs; long hair gleaming but with sweat plastering tight curls to his face. Like the art, he was just the right mix of medieval Christianity overlaying the much more intriguing ancient pagan ideals. It was a volatile mix on a canvas or in a bed.   
  
We separated ourselves, and he tied off the condom. Lying back in his arms, I turned my face to him and smiled. "Nice to meet you," I said with a chuckle. "Do you have a last name?"  
  
"Moretti," he answered. "Nice to meet you too, Justin Taylor.  
  
"So what does it mean?"  
  
"What, my name?"  
  
"No, those things you and the man at the shop were saying...bell-ra-gass-o something?"  
  
He laughed at my interpretation. "Well, after you left yesterday I told everyone up front to find me when the beautiful golden boy came back. Mario just called to let me know you had arrived. And, I made certain you would, because anyone who knows anything about motorbikes is well aware that it doesn't take twenty-four hours to change two tires."   
  
I blushed at the thought of what the shop employees and customers knew this morning that I didn't, but it was worth it. "You shit," I said as I nuzzled his neck. “What else did you call me while we were fucking?”  
  
"Hmmm?" he pulled back and looked at me inquisitively.   
  
"Well, I was a little distracted at the moment but it sounded like ill-floor-so-lay."  
  
He snickered, "Ah, il flore sole…sunflower...you remind me of a sunflower. All bright and glowing."  
  
I got quiet at that and probably appeared withdrawn. "Did I say something wrong?" he asked thoughtfully.   
  
"No, it's just that a similar analogy has been drawn before...ancient history though." I kissed him tenderly and that action led to another much more leisurely fuck.   
  
And so began the romance of the mechanic and the scholar. I could have fallen for this man, but thanks to "It's only fucking" Brian and "We're only friends" Trevor I know better. Antonio is my summer camp love. The boy you met at Camp Cayuga from Albuquerque or some other exotic sounding far off place. You swear you will always stay close, but he drifts from your life as the days grow cold. This time, I was no fool. I went into this relationship for 'the maximum amount of pleasure and the minimum amount of bullshit' with a well-guarded heart. I would not fall in love, not again, not until I know its right.   
  
**January '07** – Well, it was a Merry Christmas and one hell of a New Year. The school virtually shut down between December 17th and January 8th, and while I could have accomplished a shit load of work on my project, Antonio's draw and dick were just too great.   
  
While Rome is no New York or San Francisco when it comes to gay nightlife, clubs such as Gender, Hangar, Occhio de Ra, and Alibi have welcomed me with open arms and legs. Every gay man in the city seems to know Antonio, who apparently has quite the playboy reputation. Why am I so attracted to these bad boys?   
  
Ah well, this time around I was just enjoying it while it lasted. Enjoying it a bit too much. Let me tell you, Bacchus is alive and well in Rome. I have never spent more time with my head in a toilet than I did during January of 2007. I'm pretty sure that within a few years, this period of my life will be one big blur of drugs, drink, dancing, sucking and fucking. Man, I needed this.   
  
**February '07** \- While not scholarly at all, this pretty much brings me up to date. This month it is back to business but I will not take up that discussion here. If I want to reminisce about the work I accomplished in Rome someday, I have reams of other papers and CD's on that subject.   
  
I now limit my visits to Antonio's lair to Friday evenings and Saturdays. I am usually back in my room by Sunday afternoon, well aware of his weekly activities that do not include me. That's fine. I will be home in a couple of months anyway, and he will be nothing but a sweet, sweet memory. No sense in either of us getting our hearts broken.   
  
Oh, one more thing. I've been playing it safe, but I got tested today just in case. I've had more drunken sex than I want to remember in the last two months. I'm pretty confident that I'm fine but this waiting game is always a bitch.  



	22. Chapter 18.1

  
Author's notes:   


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**16 February 2007 – Friday night**

****Gus is sound asleep…he had a long day…and I don’t want to turn on the TV and take a chance on waking him the fuck up, so I’ll just take this as an opportunity to update my journal. A little peace and quiet is not unwelcome.

I got to my hotel in Toronto about 9:00 last night, called Lindsay, looked for some porn on the hotel listings – why do I even try? – and of course there was nothing to be had but boobs and pussy. Lots of girl-on-girl sex. Bleeah. So I had a couple of drinks and got to sleep early. Probably just as well. My squirt wasn’t the only one who had a long day in front of him.

After breakfast, I drove out to the munchers to pick up my date. Gus was more than ready to go, his body practically thrumming with excitement. Lindsay, of course, was having an anxiety attack. Gus comes with operating instructions, it turns out. She handed me an 8.5 x 11 sheet with all the Gus Do’s and Don’t’s: too much greasy food makes him throw up, most of the things he likes to eat are greasy, he has to wear his mittens even though he hates them, make sure he brushes his teeth twice a day, and oh, yes, he has his Naughty Pig with him in case he gets homesick. Well, thank God. I’d hate to travel without his Naughty Pig.

I didn’t bother trying to reassure her. I thought I was exercising a great deal of restraint just by not commenting and keeping the eye rolls to a minimum.

Once I pried Gus away from Nervous Nellie, the rest of the trip was uneventful. Liberty Airlines has a children’s waiting area where Gus was happy to play with other young travelers until our flight was ready to board. Fortunately, the flight from Toronto to Burlington, Vermont, takes a little more than an hour and a half. Of course, when we’d been in the air less than half an hour, Gus asked me if we were almost there. I put on my sternest face and said, “No, we aren’t, Gus, and I don’t want you asking me that again. I will tell you when we are almost there. In the meantime find something in that backpack full of toys Maman packed and play with it.”

If I used that tone of voice with that face on Theodore, he’d make himself scarce pretty quickly. Even Cynthia would give me a wide berth for a little while. Gus…Gus asked again ten minutes later. I can fire Ted, I can threaten to cut Cynthia’s bonus, but Gus is not on my payroll. So I ended up spending almost an hour playing Blink and reading a book about the fucking Naughty Pig out loud.

We picked up a car – four-wheel drive – in Burlington. An hour later we were checking into the Innsbruck Inn. It was nearly 3:00 p.m., and of course skiing was out for today. I had learned a valuable lesson at Christmas: a pool is a Good Thing. The Innsbruck Inn, like most of the hotels in Stowe, only has an outdoor pool, unusable in winter, but Stowe has a community swimming pool. As guests at the Inn, we had guest privileges at the Swimming Hole. And…O joy, O happiness…the pool has a waterslide that Gus can use without any assistance from Dad. The pool is 3’ at its deepest – which is where the slide ends - so as long as I kept an eye on him, he was fine on his own.

I don’t care if I never go down another fucking waterslide.

No one of either sex came on to me this time. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed.

The café at the Innsbruck Inn serves breakfast and après ski snacks but no dinner. I asked the concierge for a kid-friendly place to eat, and she recommended Gracie’s. I’m afraid Lindsay is going to be annoyed with me. Gracie’s was fine…kid-friendly with food an adult can eat…but its theme is dogs. All kinds of dogs. Gus wants a dog, he informed me. Then we discussed what kind of dog, at length. Gus prefers large dogs, the larger the better. I didn’t encourage him, but I wasn’t successful in discouraging him, either. Lindz won’t be pleased.

After dinner, it was back to the Inn, watch a little TV, and then Gus conked out. I’m going to conk myself shortly.

**18 February 2007, Sunday night**

We go home tomorrow. I think Gus had a good time. I’m satisfied that he has made a good start at skiing.

We were very fortunate in that the weather was relatively mild, and Gus never got painfully chilled. And, yes, Lindsay, I made sure he kept his damn mittens on.

Yesterday and today we started off the day with a two-hour lesson. The class is for 3-to-6s only and is limited to three children. The other two children in his group…both days…were a pair of sisters, age four and six. The six-year-old was actually a month older than Gus, but of course he was a head taller. He was also, in my unprejudiced opinion, far better coordinated and a faster learner. After the class, we had lunch at a nearby snack bar, then – yesterday – we went back to the same little slope for a few more practice runs. Then it was a return trip to the Swimming Hole, dinner at a family restaurant that didn’t feature dogs, and an early bedtime.

Today we were a little more adventuresome. With the instructor’s O.K., I took off and made two runs while Gus had his lesson, then – after our lunch – we took a lift to the Inspiration trail and skied it together. They call it the Inspiration trail because of the beautiful views, which did indeed compensate for its lack of excitement.

Well, there was a little excitement. We met another father skiing with his ten-year-old daughter. A very well-built father with a gleam in his eyes that I recognized and reciprocated. We both understood that nothing was going to happen since we were heavily chaperoned, but that didn’t stop us from flirting.

We had just established that Mike’s partner couldn’t get away this weekend…Aunt Trudy’s funeral…and I was about to announce my single state, when a voice located in the vicinity of my hip said, “My Daddy is ‘gaged.”

Mike said, a purr in his voice, “I never would have guessed.”

I rolled my lips slightly inward. Gus said, “Justin is in It’ly, right, Dad?”

“Italy,” I said. “Rome, to be exact.”

“While the cat’s away…?”

“We don’t have a cat,” Gus said, “but I want a dog. Do you have a dog?”

Mike gave up the flirtation, answered Gus factually – they do – another nail in Lindsay’s coffin – and we finished the run. Mike and his daughter took the lift back up for a second run, while Gus and I made another stop at the Swimming Hole. It’s only 8:30 now, but he’s out cold. I think I can order a movie tonight. Nothing short of an atom bomb is going to wake him up.

**19 February 2007 – Monday, early afternoon**

We’re on the last leg of our trip, flying back to Toronto from Vermont. Damn it, I’m already missing the squirt. Of course, I’d have to give up my sex life if I kept him around. He’d see to that.

Earlier on this flight, the attendants rolled the cart down the aisle, offering drinks and very small bags of very dry pretzels. I got Gus a coke and paid for a vodka and o.j. for myself. The steward said, “Is there anything else I can get you?” and I perked up. There was no doubt in my mind that he was coming on to me. I knew nothing was going to come of it in the hour left on the flight, but – as I’ve said – a little flirtation helps pass the time.

I dropped my voice and said, “What are you offering?”

He said, “We at Liberty Airlines go to great lengths to please our passengers." _Well, well, well._

Gus leaned forward and said, “My Dad’s ‘gaged.”

The attendant smiled…he really wasn’t my type, anyway…and said, “He is?”

Gus nodded his head. “He’s going to marry my other dad, Justin.”

“That’s very nice,” the steward said, and he pushed the cart along.

I looked at Gus suspiciously. “Why did you say that, Gus?”

“Say what?”

“Why do you tell everybody I’m engaged?”

“I don’t.”

I gave him my best steely-eyed look.

“I don’t, Dad. I only tell guys.”

“Okay. So why do you tell guys?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Cause I’m not ‘lowed to say that word.”

“What word?”

“The word I’m not ‘lowed to say.”

Okay, this wasn’t getting us anywhere. I thought for a moment. “Who is allowed to say that word?”

“Mom and Maman. They say it when they think I’m not around.”

“Are you saying you over-heard your mothers talking and using bad language?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And they didn’t know you were listening?”

“Uh-huh. They were talking about you, Dad.”

Now we were getting somewhere. I thought hard and said, “You can tell me what they said, but where they used the bad word, you use ‘play.’ Do you understand? When you come to the bad word, don’t say it. Say ‘play’ instead.”

“Mom said that everybody knows you will…play….” His voice trailed off, and he looked stumped.

“With?” I prompted.

“With anything with two legs and a dick. Is dick a bad word, Dad?”

_Bad? No. On the other hand, it’s not a word he should come out with in first grade._ “It’s real name is ‘penis,’ son, and that’s not a bad word. What did Maman say?”

“She said she didn’t mind you…playing…without Justin, but she’s afraid you’ll hook up with somebody else. She said you’re on…on the…the bounce-back.”

“Rebound. And you shouldn’t say hook up, Gus.” _Thank you for your concern, damn you, Lindsay._

“Okay. I don’t want you…playing…with anyone but Justin so I just tell everybody you’re ‘gaged so they won’t play with you.”

A very effective technique, too. “Gus, what happens between Justin and me is grown up business, and little boys shouldn’t try to interfere in grown up business. So no more telling people I’m engaged or that I’m going to marry Justin. If I want people to know, I’ll tell them myself. Understand?”

Gus gave me a big-eyed, sincere look. “O.K. I understand.”

Why don’t I believe him? Why did that big-eyed, sincere look strike me as totally phony? Surely a six-year-old can’t try to use a facial expression to deceive, can he? Can he?

**19 February 2007. Later on Monday**

I dropped Gus off around 3:00 p.m. Mel was at work, of course, but Lindsay had another hour before she had to leave for one of the two classes she is teaching at the Ontario College of Art and Design where she is an adjunct professor. Teaching at the College is quite a feather in her cap…it’s a prestigious institution…but even prestigious institutions aren’t averse to saving a few shekels by hiring adjunct professors (read temporary, part-time). Lindz is teaching two classes, one from 4:45 to 7:00 on Mondays and Wednesdays, the other from 7:15 to 9:30 on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Mel is never home before 6:30 which means that they have to get a baby-sitter at least two nights a week.

It took a good fifteen minutes before Lindz had Gus settled in front of the TV with a glass of milk and the health bar that she makes, and the two of us could retreat to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.

“So,” she said, “how did it go? Did he behave?”

“I think he had a good time. Talking to him was certainly informative.”

She picked up her spoon and stirred her coffee. She takes it black. “How so?”

“Well, for one thing, he’s worried because he overheard Mel say that I’ll fuck anything with two legs and a dick. I understand you agreed with her. And no, Gus didn’t say ‘fuck;’ he said ‘play with.’”

“Brian, I’m so sorry you had to hear that, but….”

“Sorry that Mel thinks I’ll fuck anything with two legs and a dick? That’s hardly news. The news here is that you two have been talking about me like that where he can overhear.” I stood up and walked to the kitchen door. I looked out at the wintry back yard for a minute, then turned around and walked back to the kitchen table. I slapped my hand down on the table next to her coffee cup, and Lindsay jumped. “Christ, he’s my son, Lindz. He shouldn’t be hearing that sort of comment even if it is true.”

She looked distinctly nervous. “Brian, I don’t remember ever discussing you in those terms when he was around.”

“He said you didn’t know he was listening.” I walked to the door to the dining room and swung it open. I could see Gus sitting cross-legged in front of the TV in the living room, his half-full glass of milk next to him on the floor. I let the door swing shut again and turned back to the table. “Hell, he could have been listening on the other side of this door right now.”

“You see how easy it would be?”

“Yeah, I can understand how it happened, but understanding isn’t forgiving. I don’t care what you do…what lengths you have go to…you’ve got to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Ever. Wait until he’s out of the house on a play date, wait until he’s in bed asleep, hell, pass notes across the dinner table…I don’t care. Just make sure there’s no repetition.”

“Honest to God, Brian, we’ve been trying. We’ve cleaned up our language more than I would ever have believed possible…it’s not just for Gus…but Torontonians are shocked by language that is everyday, run-of-the-mill conversation in Pittsburgh.” She had her head propped up on one hand, and her blonde hair was falling alongside her cheek. She looked depressed. “You know, it seems like Mel and I are never home at the same time. I get up early so that we can eat breakfast as a family before she has to leave, and we spend the weekends together, except when Mel has to go in to the office on a Saturday or Sunday. Other than that….”

“That should make it easy to make sure Gus isn’t around to hear anything he shouldn’t hear.” I turned and popped the door open slightly: still in front of the TV, thank God.

“You know, maybe Debbie calls on Saturday and Mel is at the office. We sit down for dinner together…Gus has already eaten and JR is down for the night…and I just spill everything. I don’t have anyone else to talk to about the Pitts…nobody else here is even mildly interested.”

My God, she looks close to tears. Not if I can help it. In my most sarcastic voice I said, “Why, Lindz, are you homesick for quaint, picturesque Liberty Avenue? Miss the intellectual stimulation of the GLBT Center? And the beer-soaked, testosterone-loaded aroma of Woody’s? I am surprised.”

She gave me a weak smile. “I’m just being silly. I guess it’s seeing you, and missing Gus…just everything getting to me today.”

“That time of the month?” I raised an eyebrow.

Almost simultaneously we both heard a cry from the second floor…more like a bellow, actually. For a 30 lb. child, JR has excellent lungs. Gus called, “JR’s up, Mom.”

Lindz gave me another small smile and stood up. I stepped closer and grabbed her shoulders. “You know, don’t you, that if you need help…if you need tuition for Gus’ school…help so that you don’t have to teach four nights a week…or even help relocating back to the Pitts…you know you just have to ask, don’t you?”

“I need to get her up now so she’s ready for the baby-sitter,” she said and she brushed past me and out the door.

And that was pretty much that. I said my good-byes to JR and Lindsay and to Gus - that’s an exercise guaranteed to cheer me up – and came right here to the airport. They have bars in airports, thank God, and I’ve been holding down a table at one for more than two hours, reminding myself of a major truth that I’ve finally learned over this past year. People have to make their own decisions and live with the consequences. I can’t – shouldn’t – mustn’t – prevent those consequences even when I can see them clearly and know how they could avoid them. By God, however, I can be around to help pick up the pieces, if I’m allowed.

Almost time for my flight to board. I’ll be back to the Pitts in an hour…back to my routine of smoking, drinking, and drugging. The good life, in other words.  



	23. Chapter 19

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

 

**March 20th or maybe 21st – not sure what the fuck time it is – The Loft**  
Listening to – Silence  
  
I never expected to be sitting here, at 35, staring at the Ice Queen’s death certificate. I thought she would be around for many more years, praying for me and cursing me in the same breath, every day of her life. Sometimes life, and death, work out in unexpected ways, Joanie. If what we believe when we are alive is in fact our reality after death, you have a lot to answer for: your hurtful words, your cold demeanor, your narrow-minded bigotry, your emotional and physical abandonment.  
  
I’ve spent the two days since she died feeling…what? I am not unhappy because my mother is dead. I am not happy that she’s no longer around to condemn me to hell in the strongest possible language. I don’t regret not making amends with her before she died. I’m not saddened because she never apologized for all the shit she dumped on me. I’m not even upset because she’s causing me a helluva a lot of work now. The only one I’m maybe a little upset with is Claire. She isn’t even trying to pull herself together, and I’m an impatient bastard with no tolerance for other people’s weaknesses, as Joanie would have been happy to tell you.  
  
Thank God for Mikey. He’s been a rock when I needed a rock. He’s been at my side for everything: the trip to the morgue, the meeting today with the funeral director, the meeting yesterday with Father Tom: all the details of dying that Claire can’t cope with. Instead, he’s been handling Claire for me – her breakdown is one of my larger problems - and her Demon Offspring. He has more experience than I do, dealing with perverted juvenile delinquents. He dealt with Hunter…and with me…just fine. John and Peter Murphy will be a walk in the park for him.   
  
For example, today, after we met with the funeral director, Michael and I went back to Claire’s house. Claire was sitting in her living room, snuffling into a tissue and rocking back and forth. My immediate reaction was to turn around, walk out of there, and never go back. Instead Michael sent me out to pick up Claire’s Valium prescription. By the time I got back, he’d found out who the boys’ best friends were. He’d made arrangements for John’s friend, Marc, to come over and spend the night. Peter, on the other hand, was out the door, spending the night at his best friend’s house. Then Mikey spent fifteen minutes calming Claire down enough to be able to get the names and telephone numbers of her friends. He arranged for somebody named Eileen Dougherty to spend tonight with her. Eileen has promised to recruit another friend for tomorrow night.   
  
Thank God. I think I’d go nuts if I had to stay at that house, even for just for a night or two. I’d feel something then, but it wouldn’t be helpful, constructive, or beneficial to anyone’s mental health.   
  
Mikey must have noticed my wild-eyed looks, because as soon as he got Eileen settled in, he took me home for a home-cooked meal. Of course, with Ben in the kitchen, that means some kind of tofu shit, but I was so happy to be out of Claire’s house that I only made a couple of sarcastic comments.  
  
After dinner, after the dishes were done and the kitchen cleaned up, I spoke to Gus for a moment or two and Lindsay for a lot longer. Then I started prowling the living room restlessly. I wasn’t ready to go back to the empty loft, but I couldn’t settle down at Michael’s, either. Finally, Ben said, in his gentle way, “You know, Brian, if you want to go out for a couple of hours, nobody is going to accuse you of being uncaring. Everybody who counts knows about your relationship with your mother.”  
  
Thus spake Pope Ben. I am uncaring, of course, not that that’s anybody else’s business. I’m certainly not going to explain myself to the twinks at Babylon, if I decide to go there. But Ben’s opinion meant a lot to Michael. A look passed between them, and Mikey said, “I’d like to go to Babylon for a couple of hours.”   
  
Pathetic. John got to have his best friend over, Peter got to go to a sleep over, I get taken to Babylon to get my dick sucked. All three of us are, or should be, grateful to Mikey for taking charge of us.  
  
We got to Babylon fairly early, for Babylon, and I headed straight for the bar and a beer with a Jim Beam chaser. And another beer and another chaser. And that was just the start. The drunker I got, the more restless Michael got. I knew he wanted to go home to his husband after a long, tiring day of babysitting the entire, fucked-up Kinney clan. I sighed and looked around the room. A cute brunet was gyrating a few feet away from me. What the fuck? Might as well.   
  
My tolerance to alcohol is pretty high, so I wasn’t staggering or slurring my words. The room was spinning pretty briskly, however. I was definitely drunk, but not too drunk to persuade a twink to suck my dick. I cut in on the brunet and turned on the Kinney charm, and five minutes later he and I were in the backroom. Another two minutes and a wall was holding me up while an enthusiastic mouth teased my cock, encouraging it to come to attention. Except that my cock wasn’t cooperating. Despite increasingly energetic efforts, my dick remained completely, discouragingly limp.   
  
Perhaps I had had too much to drink. I’ve heard that that can be a problem, although I’ve never actually experienced it myself. The trick massaged my balls gently, but without results. _Jesus_ , I thought, _if this isn’t the perfect ending to a perfect day. Goddamn it, all I want is three minutes in a row where I’m not thinking about my bitch mother_.   
  
Joan said, “Brian, I’m trying to save you from the eternal fire. Fight temptation, be strong, harden yourself against your wanton inclinations!”  
  
I looked around. _How the hell did Joan Kinney get into the backroom? And where the fuck was she anyway?_ I couldn’t see her, but I said, “If you want to watch me get sucked, stick around, old woman. You’ll see how hard I can get.”  
  
The twink said, “What?” and Joanie said, “Shame! Shame on you!”  
  
I shut my eyes and smiled. “Never mind,” I said to the twink, and I gently pushed his head toward my hardening cock. “Just keep up the good work, kid.”  
  
.I came with a satisfying release, then – just to be sure that I’d exorcised the ghost of Joan Kinney – I took another trick home with me. I just put him in a cab, after another speedy and enjoyable session that took care of my lingering fears. Yes, I can get it up and get off quite effectively, thank you very much.  
  
Now I’m alone in the loft, looking at her death certificate and drinking one last beer before bed. I don’t know what the hell happened in that backroom. All I know is that I didn’t hear Joanie’s voice in my head. She was right there, next to me, in that dark, testosterone-laden room. I heard her sanctimonious, censorious voice as clearly as I heard the twink ask me what I said.   
  
Hearing her once more was exactly what I needed to be able to deal with her death. Now I can bury her without any more hand-holding by Mikey. Tomorrow morning I’ll write up a To Do list and start ticking off items as I get them done. Burying the Ice Queen will just be another project, with a start and a finish and a certain number of steps in between. For me, Joanie herself is finished.   
  
Maybe there is a God, after all. Somebody saved me tonight.   
  
Maybe somebody will intervene and help me exorcise Justin. Lord knows I’m not succeeding on my own.  



	24. Chapter 20

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**Wednesday, March 21, 2007 – Rome, Italy**  
  
Listening to: Coldplay – [X&Y](http://rapidshare.de/files/9041793/08_X_Y.m4a.html)  
  
  
Oh God. 

Deb is pretty clueless when it comes to technology but today, somehow or other, she managed to figure out how to send me an attachment. At first I thought it was one of those jokes that fly around the internet, a really tasteless one. I didn't want to believe it was for real. When I did, I was speechless. 

I had never felt more fucking helpless except when I was lying in a hospital bed with tubes running in and out and a machine doing my breathing for me. I don’t remember much of that except for those few, horribly lucid moments before the next round of drugs would kick in. My eyes wouldn’t open but my other senses compensated for them. My ears rang to the sound of my mother’s voice pleading with a nurse to “please give him something”. My nose burned from the overpowering smell of disinfectant. My throat stung from the blood that had gone down it, inducing the vomit that had come up. And my body throbbed as if each muscle and tendon had been systematically ripped from the adjacent bones and then haphazardly shoved back into place. Hospital sounds, smells, tastes and touch and not a damn thing I could do to change any of them. Fucking helpless, just like now.   
  
I do not know how to reach out to him. If there is a class that teaches one how to minister to an ex-lover who has suddenly lost his abusive mother from a distance of 6.000 miles, I never signed up for it. I know Brian was not close to her, but he was never close to his father either and he didn’t handle his death all that well.   
  
He pushed me away…for awhile. He forbid me to come to the funeral or his parent’s house afterward. He said the last thing he needed was his mother or sister asking who the strange kid was by his side. So I did as he dictated. Michael filled me in though. He told me about the scene Brian sparked back at his parents’ house when Claire asked him to share a memory of his father. He told me how Brian’s mother, half in the bag even on that night, ordered Brian out and called him an ungrateful son and a habitual liar. He told me of the drug and booze induced episode back at the loft later that evening. He told me about what he assumed was Brian’s final ‘fuck you’ to his old man: bowling a perfect game and kissing Mikey in the lane to piss off the homophobes that frequented Jack’s favorite establishments. And of course, he told me how Brian clung to him in the street after sending Jack’s bowling ball into oblivion.  
  
Michael told me everything he knew, and I accepted his explanation of the events and how he was there for his “best friend.” I couldn’t compete with that because I was just the 18-year-old twink his best friend was currently fucking. But what Michael didn’t know is that I was also the 18-year-old man that loved his best friend too much to share the next chapter of the story.   
  
It had been nearly a week since Brian’s father died, and he had made himself scarce. He wasn't at the diner in the morning, and he wasn't at Babylon or Woody's at night. Deb consoled me with her version of the old nursery rhyme, "Leave him alone and he will come home, wagging his dick in front of him." The thought made me laugh, and I knew, in the back of my mind, she was right.   
It was the middle of the night, a school night, when my phone finally rang.   
  
“Justin.”  
  
“Brian?”  
  
“Where are you?”  
  
“Um, at Debs…in bed…sleeping. Are you drunk?”  
  
“Maybe. Get dressed; I’m coming to get you.” And then a pause, “OK?”  
  
“Sure, I guess…what’s up?”  
  
He had already hung up. I shook off the sleep and sat on the edge of the bed staring at my phone. This was strange, even for him. What was I supposed to wear? Where were we going? It was fucking cold out and he was drunk. I thought if he was horny, we could just stay here. It wouldn’t be the first time we had sex in Michael’s old room and Deb wouldn’t care.   
  
I decided this would be the best and safest place for him to stay. A cold, drunk, horny, Brian wouldn’t take much convincing. I threw on some sweats and made my way down the steps. A car was slowing in front of the house as I walked down, its headlights slightly illuminating Deb’s living room for a few seconds. It was him, so I went directly to the door and unlocked it. Peering out, he appeared well in control which was a relief. He left the car running as he stepped out and lit a cigarette. I cracked open the door and motioned for him to come inside. He shook his head and said, “No, get out here.” Shit. I told him I had to grab some shoes and ran upstairs for them and a jacket. I was still putting it on when I exited the house and turned to close the front door.   
  
As I locked it, he bounded up the steps and was behind me in an instant. I turned and he wrapped an arm around me, clamping his hand on the back of my head. With his other hand he caressed my cheek and then bent down and kissed me so hard I tasted blood. I wasn’t sure if it was his or mine. I pulled away and asked, “What’s going on Brian, are you all right?”   
  
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just ne…I mean, I want you.”  
  
“Well, you can have me but wouldn’t it be much more pleasant inside the house?”  
  
“We’re not staying. Come on, get in the car.”  
  
He pulled me down the steps and I obliged. Since the jeep had been running, it was warm and comfortable. I was up for car sex, what the hell. He got in the driver's side and put it in gear without saying a word. I was quiet for a while just watching him as he never took his eyes off the road. I noticed from his dashboard clock that it was 2:27. This had better be good, I thought, because I was pulling the early shift at the diner before class again. I finally spoke up when we started taking an unfamiliar route.   
  
“Brian, where the fuck are we going?”  
  
“To the cemetery.” He still hadn’t taken his eyes off the road and I didn’t say another word.   
  
We were there in another ten minutes. The night was clear and the sky was cloudless. The moon cast a brilliant glow on the soft layer of snow that had fallen earlier in the day. This eerie place was actually very beautiful, and quiet, and still. Brian stopped the car, got out and came around to my side. He opened my door and held my elbow as I stepped out. He pulled me close to him and he led me to the relatively fresh, still unmarked site. The snow crunched under our feet as we made the first foot prints toward Jack’s grave.  
  
We stood at the foot of it when Brian turned to me. Placing one hand under my chin he angled my face up to his. Looking directly into my eyes he said, “Dad, this is Justin.” And he bent down to kiss me, softly, tenderly. Nothing like the beating my mouth had received on Deb’s porch. This kiss lasted long enough for me to taste a single tear that had rolled down his cheek and blended into our lips. When he pulled away, his eyes were shut. He kissed the tip of my nose and up the bridge and continued until his mouth was pressed lightly to my forehead. There, the one sided conversation continued.   
  
“He tastes so good,” Brian said quietly. Sinking to his knees, his voice regained strength and sarcasm. “Have I told you how much I like sucking his dick, Jack?” Slipping his fingers into the elastic waist of my sweatpants he freed my cock from its warm confines. The cold air hit my balls and they instantly retreated. But then, Brian’s mouth was on me and his hand was covering them…massaging them…assuring me that he would keep them safe and warm. He never let my cock slide from his mouth. Instead he sucked hard, nursing it, running his tongue up and down its length.   
  
My fingers were entwined in his hair and I sighed when he pulled away. White puffs of protest were visible in the frigid night air. He quickly covered me back up and took my hand. He led me a few feet back to the far side of the headstone on a neighboring grave and stepped behind me, placing his chin on my shoulder.   
  
We were both facing his father's grave now. It was just a pile of dirt with brown patches of crumbled earth jutting out between the thin cover of white snow. “I like doing other things to him too.” Brian spat out the words as his hand came up under my opened jacket and sweat shirt. His palm settled between my shoulder blades and he pushed down slightly. I bent forward and grabbed the cold, gray headstone. He ran his fingers down my back sending a shiver right along with them down my spine. When he reached my waistband he once again hooked his thumbs inside and lowered the elastic band gently, just under my cheeks.   
  
“I like to rim him dad. Do you know what that is? No? Well let me show you.” Oh God, my cheeks were spread and Brian’s tongue was just where I wanted it. No time for much foreplay in this weather, his saliva intensifying the cold with each withdrawal. Brian was on his knees again. I felt one hand leave my ass to fumble in his coat pocket. His tongue flat now against the outside of my hole, lapping, keeping it warm…and wet. My dick was dripping inside my pants, the soft cotton absorbing the pre-cum and sending a cold chill down my shaft.   
  
He stood then and I heard his zipper being pulled and a condom wrapper opening. My eyes scanned the surreal landscape as I heard him say, “Most of all dad, I like to fuck his ass. Yup, your son is a cock-sucking, ass-fucking fairy, Jack. And a damn good one at that.” His lubed fingers were at my hole. I shut my eyes tight, trying to prepare for the pain that was sure to follow. His voice, infused with venom now, made me think I was about to pay for years of abuse Brian had suffered at the hands of this heartless man.   
  
Instead, he held them there and rubbed softly, slowly; gently maneuvering them inside. There was no pain. All the hate was directed at his father. For me there was only tenderness, and I swear…love. His fingers entered me and circled inside me. Their tips bumped my prostate and I lowered my head and moaned.   
  
“That’s it, Justin, let him know how good we are together.”  
  
“Oh God Brian, just fuck me. Fuck me now…please.” I pleaded.   
  
He removed his fingers and slipped his dick in just as easily on the next thrust. His well lubed hand was now on my cock pumping me. My sweatpants, just a distant memory, were crumpled around my ankles and my legs were spread as far as the situation would allow. The cold air only added to the excitement of the moment. My fingers gripped the freezing headstone as I felt the familiar tightening in my balls. One more push and I was shooting in his hand, my ass contracting around his dick with increasing intensity prompting Brian’s orgasm seconds later.   
  
“Good boy,” he whispered in my ear as he brought his cum soaked hand to his mouth. Placing two fingers inside, he sucked and removed them with a smack. “Mmmm...Just like I said dad; he tastes so good.” We were both leaning over the headstone now. Breathing hard and staring at the mound of frozen earth. Brian’s arms were around me as our heartbeats began to regulate and slow. He carefully backed away, removing his dick and squatting to grab and pull up my pants. He removed the condom, tied it off and tossed it on his father's grave. Zipping up, he bent down and kissed crook of my neck. "Let's go," he said and he draped his arm over my shoulder. We walked back to the jeep, silently, and there was no conversation on the ride back. Something significant had passed between us, and I wouldn't diminish it with words.   
  
This time he shut the jeep off and locked it when we pulled up to Debs. He followed me into the house and up the stairs. Without a word, we dropped our clothes and crawled into bed together. Brian's arms and legs were wrapped around me, spooning me, and his mouth was at my ear whispering, "Thank you." All the while my bedside clock snickered at me, the numbers 3:32 glaring as if to say, you have to get up in two hours, dumbass. I drifted off thinking, fuck you, you plastic piece of shit. It was worth it.  
  
Deb poked her head in before my alarm got its revenge and was greeted with what must have been a somewhat familiar sight. Two of her boys entwined in each other's arms, only this time there was a blond head in the mix. I felt her touch my cheek with the back of her hand and my eyes flew open. With a finger to her lips she mouthed, "Shhh...", bringing her hand down she whispered, "Stay here, I'll cover you at the diner." I smiled and she was gone.   
  
And now, once again, she has alerted me to his need. But it's not so simple this time. Deb. What was I going to say? What time was it there right now, 5 or 6 o'clock? Would he be at the funeral home already? Oh, what the fuck. I dialed the number, took a deep breath and tried to calm my heart. I called the loft directly and the answering machine picked up on the third ring.  
  
"Brian, its Justin, if you are there, pick up...please."  
  
\- Nothing -   
  
"Um, I heard about your mom...and...I'm sorry. I know you probably don't want to hear this, but I am. I'm sorry for all the shit you have to deal with right now, and I don't want to add to that. But if there is anything, anything at all, that I can do, Brian, please don't hesitate to call. I'm still in Rome for awhile but my number is the same. Call me any time. I mean it. Bye."  



	25. Chapter 21

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**Friday, March 22, 2007, 2:00 a.m. – Pittsburgh, PA**  
Listening to: Foo Fighters – [Over and Out](http://rapidshare.de/files/9221638/09_Over_and_Out.m4a.html)

 

"Um, I heard about your mom...and...I'm sorry. I know you probably don't want to hear this, but I am. I'm sorry for all the shit you have to deal with right now, and I don't want to add to that. But if there is anything, anything at all that I can do, Brian, please don't hesitate to call. I'm still in Rome for a while but my number is the same. Call me any time. I mean it. Bye."

I think that was the fourth time I listened to Justin’s message. Could have been the fifth. Fifth listen while working on my fifth of Jim Beam. That’s got nice symmetry, huh? Gotta have symmetry. Symmetry makes the world go round. Like the room, but only when I stand up. Better sit still and listen to Justin again.

"Um, I heard about your mom...and...I'm sorry….” (Pause message.) Justin’s sorry ass is in Rome, that’s what’s sorry. I’m sorry his sorry ass isn’t right here where it’s s’posed to be. If his ass and my cock put in some quality time, I might not be so sorry. I might be asleep right now, instead of putting a hurt on a fifth of J.B.

“I know you probably don't want to hear this, but I am. I'm sorry for all the shit you have to deal with right now….” (Pause message.) Today was shitty. In fact, today defined how shitty a shitty day can get. Today…or yesterday, actually…we buried the Ice Queen. I told the funeral director to drive a stake through her heart, but he didn’t seem to think that was a serious request. She may yet walk again. I hope to hell not. One after-death visitation was enough.

Claire was a mess. She cried, she sobbed, she hiccupped, snot ran down her face. It wasn’t pretty. It was embarrassing. And it went on and on. Through the Mass. At the cemetery. Back at her house. A fucking incredible performance.

The Demon Offspring were pretty good in the church, and only got a little rambunctious at the cemetery. We went back to Claire’s afterwards and that’s when they started getting out of hand. Michael Novotny-Bruckner to the rescue! Zephyr had somehow figured out which of Claire’s neighbors and friends had sons who were friends of the Offspring, and he arranged to get them both out of the house. Very practical supernatural powers, that Michael.

I stayed at the house for the shortest possible time. As soon as Father Tom showed up, I grabbed Michael and left. Father Tom, if you need your dick sucked, I’m your man. I owe you for taking Claire off my hands.

“And I don't want to add to that. But if there is anything, anything at all that I can do, Brian….” (Pause message.) Speaking of sucking dick…. Yeah, there’s something you could do for me, Justin. You could be here, not doing anything, not sucking my dick, not letting me fuck you, but just existing. I could curl up with you on the couch or we could smoke a little weed together or I could just look across the room and know that you were where you should be and that you would be there tomorrow and next year and five years from now. So pathetic.

“Please don't hesitate to call.” (Pause message.) Fuck. Like I’m going to call you and spill my guts. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not anytime. I know what I’d tell you if I called. I’d tell you I still miss you every day, that I still wake up every morning and look for your head on the pillow, that I still file anything funny or interesting that happens in my mental “Tell Justin” folder. After I said all that, you’d hang up and call the airlines. I know you, Justin, and I know what you’d do. Then it would be my damn fault that you cut your fellowship short, my fault that you decided to stay in the Pitts, my fault that you sabotaged your career. I can’t handle that kind of guilt, Justin.

“I'm still in Rome for a while but my number is the same. Call me any time. I mean it.” (Pause message.) He’s so sincere, so sympathetic, when he says, “Call me any time. I mean it.” I can picture his face saying that: the little frown, the concern in his eyes. I know I should just delete the whole fucking message, but I don’t have the balls. I may want to listen to it tomorrow when I’m sober. Hell, I may want to listen to it again tonight when I’m drunk. Who knows? I sure as hell don’t. But, Justin, like I already said, I’m not calling back. Too fucking dangerous.

“Bye." (Pause message.) Bye, Justin. Justin is gone. No more Justin. Good-bye, Justin. Hello, J. B.

Play it again, Sam. "Um, I heard about your mom...and...I'm sorry. I know you probably don't want to hear this, but I am. I'm sorry for all the shit….”  



	26. Chapter 21.1

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

 

**F** **riday, March 22, 2007, 2:00 p.m., Kinnetik**   
  
“Brian? It’s Lindsay on three. This is the second time she’s called. You weren’t in yet when she called before.”  
  
 _Fuck. Might as well get it over with._  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Brian, Lindsay. How are you doing?”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“I’m sorry we couldn’t make the….”  
  
“I know. I got your message.”  
  
“Brian, Gus wants to talk to you. Before he does, I have to tell you he is a little s-c-a-r-e-d. He’s w-o-r-r-i-e-d about u-s newword d-y-i-n-g. So…”   
  
I shut my eyes briefly. _The office is really very bright today. Could it be that I am hung-over? Nah. I’m sure there was an inch or two left in the JB when I crashed last night._ “Put him on,” I said.  
  
“Hi, Dad,” a small voice said, a much smaller voice than Gus’ usual self-confident tone. “I’m sorry your Mom died.”  
  
“Well, Gus, she was really old, much older than I am or than your moms are. We won’t die until you are all grown up. You’ll have your own children before we die.”  
  
That caused a giggle. “I’ll have children?”  
  
“Remember our ski trip, how I took you to learn to ski?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Well, I’m going to be around to teach your little boy to ski, just like you are learning to ski now.” _I guess it’s possible. I’m 35, Gus is six. Suppose he has a child at age 25, and I take that child skiing when he’s six. I’d be sixty. Would I be around and kicking? Um…unlikely, given my life style, but possible._  
  
“How about Justin?”  
  
“You don’t need to worry about him at all. He’s younger than I am, younger than both your mothers, and he’s a very careful person. He’ll probably be around when your children have children.” _I’m not doing the math on that one, not with the way my head’s pounding today._  
  
“Maman said your mother got killeded in a car crash. “  
  
 _Uh-oh._ “Your mothers and I are very careful drivers, and so is Justin. You don’t have to worry about any of us.”  
  
“Maman says you drive too fast.”  
  
 _What the fuck? Thank you very much, Lindsay._ “Gus, I’ve never been in an accident, not one.” _Unless you count that asshole, Craig Taylor ramming my Jeep. No, that was no fucking accident._ “I’m a really good driver. Now let me speak to Maman for a little while.”  
  
“I love you, Dad.”  
  
“Me, too, Gus.”  
  
“Here’s Maman.”  
  
“Lindsay, why the hell did you tell him I drive too fast? Great way to reassure him!”  
  
“It was months ago, Brian. He remembers _everything_. Mel and I have become the only couple in Toronto…gay, straight, or lesbian…passing notes across the dinner table.”  
  
“Great. Keep up the good work.” I paused. “I got a VoiceMail from Justin yesterday.”  
  
“You did? What did he say?”  
  
“The usual…I’m sorry, I wish I could be there, call me if you need me…the same garbage a hundred other people have said.”  
  
“Did you call him back?”  
  
“Fuck, no! How could I? He’d come running back to the Pitts to hold my hand, and I can’t have that. He has a stellar career ahead of him…God, you know that better than I do…and I can’t do anything… _anything_ …that would derail that.”  
  
“I’ve been thinking, Brian….”  
  
“God forbid!”  
  
“Perhaps he could split his time between New York City and Pittsburgh….”  
  
I interrupted her. “Stop right there. I don’t want to hear it, Lindz. And I don’t want _him_ to hear it, you understand? Any decision like that has to be Justin’s…not yours, not mine, not his mother’s…HIS. Got it?”  
  
“I hear you, Brian, and…and I do agree. It’s just….” Her voice trailed off.  
  
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s just….” And I let my voice trail off, mimicking her. “Listen,” I said briskly, “I’ve got two days’ worth of work to get through today. But any time Gus wants to speak to me, have him call. Tell Cynthia to give me the message from him, so that I’m sure to take his call.”  
  
“Thanks a lot, Brian.” There was a definite sarcastic note in her voice. “Listen, can you talk to Gus again?”  
  
I could hear him in the background, pleading. “Of course.”  
  
“Dad…,” again the small, hesitant voice. “I have another question.” He dropped his voice even lower. “I don’t want to ask Maman.”  
  
 _Oh, Jesus._ “Shoot, pardner.”  
  
“Dad, do you know that….” He seemed to run out of steam.  
  
“Know what, Gus?”  
  
Now his voice was down to a whisper. “Do you know about boys and girls?”  
  
 _Is this an equipment question?_ “Are you talking about boys having penises?”  
  
“No, I know all about that.” His voice returned to its normal register. In fact, he sounded a little impatient. ”I have a penis cos I’m a boy, and J.R. doesn’t. _Everybody_ knows _that._ ”  
  
 _Excuse me._ “What’s the question, then?”  
  
“Long time ago, Justin told me it takes a boy and a girl to make a baby…like you and Maman made me.”  
  
“Yes?” I pinched the bridge of my nose.  
  
“Well, you know J.R.’s a girl, and she’s no fun. I want a brother I can play with. Can you and Maman make me a baby brother?”  
  
“Gus, it’s not that easy. When a man and a woman make a baby, they can’t decide whether to have a boy or a girl. They have to take whatever they get.”  
  
“Oh.” A disappointed huff. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Positive. And you’d get another baby. It would be two or three years before you could play with a new brother.” _No point telling him about the nine months’ gestation period._ “By that time J.R. will be fun to play with.”  
  
“Oh.” A silence while Gus apparently contemplated the unfairness of nature. Then, “Maman says Justin is coming to see us soon. I’ll ask him.”  
  
 _Justin’s going to Toronto? Wonder why Lindz didn’t mention THAT._ “Gus, I’m afraid Justin will tell you the same thing I just told you.”   
  
“Maybe not. Justin knows everything. Justin is smart!”  
  
“Yes, he is.”  
  
“We love him, don’t we, Dad?”  
  
“Listen, squirt, I have a lot to do today. I have to say good-bye now, or Cynthia will yell at me.”  
  
“Oh, okay. Bye, Dad.”  
  
*click*  



	27. Chapter 21.2

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**Friday, April 27th, 2007  
  
** Italy is fading. It is now only a jagged coastline out of the lower corner of the airplane window. The apartment in Rome was mine until the 1st, but since my work was done and my good byes were said, I saw no reason to delay. It was lovely there, but I’m ready to go back. I’m headed home even though I’m not really sure where home is. I guess it will be Pittsburgh once again, for a little while at least. I’d like to finish my degree. It seemed like everyone I met in Rome already had theirs, and I felt so inferior. I don’t want to feel that way for the rest of my life. If I can get back into PIFA and finish there, I will be able to save money by living with my mom. What a change that is from where I imagined I would be by now.   
  
I’m not complaining, however. I know how very fortunate I am and I have no regrets. Well, maybe one. But what happened between Brian and me was probably for the best. If we had stayed together, I never would have gone to Rome. If I had never gone to Rome, I probably would not have realized the importance of finishing my education. Then someday, I would have that to regret. Maybe things really do happen for a reason. Brian never returned my call and that hurts. I wonder if his reasoning behind that will ever make sense to me.  
  
I know it’s inevitable that we are going to see each other, probably sometime in the next couple of weeks. Should I precipitate that meeting? The thought of it makes me nervous as hell. All I am certain of is that right now I am headed to see the one Kinney male who is eagerly awaiting my return. I’m flying into Toronto to spend the weekend with Gus and the girls before I head to the Pitts. I promised him this way back in September, and Lindz says he has the memory of an elephant. I’ll be damned if I break my promise.  
  
  
 **Saturday, April 28th, 2007**  
  
It’s early, 6:15 to be exact. I never sleep well in a strange bed, particularly on the first night. The house is quiet so I’m staying in my room until I hear movement. I may not have children of my own, but I know enough to take advantage of any down time one gets in a house that is inhabited by two of them.   
  
The flight to Toronto was long but uneventful. Even though it was late when I landed, Mel, Lindz, Gus and JR were all waiting outside the security area to greet me. JR fell asleep on the ride home but Gus was wired. His latest obsession is soccer, and he quizzed me about it throughout the twenty-minute ride.  
  
Mel was driving, and I was sitting across from her in the passenger seat. Lindz was directly behind me with JR in the middle and Gus behind Mel. As we were pulling out of the airport parking lot, a little hand kept reaching between Mel’s and my seat to pat my arm.   
  
“Dad, Dad, Dad.”  
  
Mel turned to me, smiled and mouthed the word. I blushed and shook my head. Lindz snaked her arm up over my seat and gave my shoulder a squeeze.  
  
“Yes, Gus?”  
  
“Did you know I’m on a soccer team?”   
  
“Yes, I heard. What position do you play?”   
  
“All of them.”  
  
“You must be good.”  
  
“Yeah. I don’t really like playing all the positions, but Coach Beale says we gots to cos that’s the best way to learn. I like playing some of them, but I hate playing goalie because either it’s boring or you get kicked a lot. I like playing center forward, and Coach Beale says I’m best at center forward cos I’m tall and I run fast and when I play center forward I get to make goals and it’s the most fun when I play center forward and Kyle Stevens plays goalie cos then I gets to kick him.”  
  
“Gus!” Lindsay interrupted, “That’s not very sportsman like.”   
  
Up until that point I had been angled in my seat looking at Gus as he spoke. I needed to face forward now as I didn’t think Lindsay would appreciate the smile that was breaking out on my face. Mel was having a little difficulty keeping from laughing herself, and she had far more experience with Gus and Lindz than I did. I don’t know shit about soccer. Gus could have told me he played the flying lizard position, and I would have believed it. But, I have to admit, center forward, as in center of attention, certainly befits the only son of Brian Kinney. Once I composed myself, I turned and inquired.  
  
“Kyle Stevens still giving you trouble?”   
  
“What trouble?” Lindsay asked. _Shit._  
  
Gus was silent. Once again, I had been around this kid for mere minutes and was already sticking my foot in my mouth.   
  
I turned to Lindz, “Guy stuff,” I said with a wink and she accepted the explanation with a concerned little smile of resignation. I thought now would be a good time to change the subject.   
  
“So what are we going to do tomorrow, Gus?”  
  
“I have a soccer game, and you can come watch me play!”  
  
 _Well, that worked._ “Sounds great!” Honestly it did. At least it would keep me from having to exhibit how inept I am at football.   
  
“So, Justin,” Lindsay asked, “What are your plans?”  
  
“Well, I thought I’d stay through the weekend and then head to Pittsburgh.”  
  
“I think she meant long term, sweetie,” Mel interjected.  
  
“Oh, well, I don’t really know.”  
  
“You’re getting married to daddy.” Gus announced.   
  
And then we were all silent.   
  
“Right? Right, Dad?”  
  
I turned, looked at Gus and Lindz saved me.   
  
“Gus honey, that’s not polite to put Justin on the spot like that. If he and daddy are going to get married, they will announce it to us when they are ready. But, right now, Justin has lots of decisions to make…right, Justin?  
  
 _Thank you, Lindsay._ “Right. I’m going to stay here with you for a few days,” I told him, “and then I’m going to go back to Pittsburgh to see everybody, including your daddy.” Turning completely around to look at Lindsay, I continued, “I’m actually thinking of finishing my degree.”  
  
“Good for you!” she exclaimed, and then asked incredulously, “In Pittsburgh?”  
  
“Maybe. I don’t know. One thing’s for sure; I do have a lot of decisions to make.”  
  
The rest of the ride was pretty sedate. Even Gus was winding down. Rather than asking more questions he was content running down the scores of each soccer game he had participated in since the start of the season. From the length, I suspect this included practice games also.   
  
Upon our arrival home, he begged to sleep with me but the girls made it clear that was not an option. So here I am, in a quiet house, in my little room, wishing he was next to me.   
  
  
  
**Sunday, April 29th, 2007 - 10:55 PM**  
  
Well, I got my wish.  
  
The house is once again quiet but now Gus is curled up in my bed. Lindz agreed to let him sleep with me tonight as long as he didn’t make a scene about going to the airport with us tomorrow.   
  
I’m glad I decided to stop here first. Spending my first weekend home with Mel, Lindz and the kids was a nice way to break back into ‘the family,’ and I’m feeling pretty damn good about being called ‘dad’ again. Saturday was a real parental success story for me.   
  
Gus’s soccer game was scheduled for 9:00 so it was an early morning for all of us. After a high carb pancake breakfast, we loaded into the SUV and made our way to the soccer field. What an eye opener THAT was. Upon arrival, we were immediately instructed on where to park. Why? Because this shit goes on all day. By the time Gus’s game was scheduled to be over, another contingent would be arriving. Parking was at a premium and these folks had it down to a science. We were directed to the hinterlands. Loaded down with what seemed like enough supplies to outfit Emmett on a two-week camping trip, we walked about three quarters of a mile before we arrived at our appointed field. 

I went expecting to watch a couple of elementary school teams battle it out on a neighborhood field. Instead, I witnessed mass marketing at its finest. Acres upon acres of emerald turf, divided into no fewer than twenty different soccer fields, surrounded by blacktopped parking lots, food stands, soccer paraphernalia hawkers, and an untold number of fundraising booths. Someone tapped into the collective juvenile psyche and struck gold when they came up with youth soccer.  
  
I never played the game myself. My father was a baseball star in high school, and he was damn sure going to see to it that his son was one too. So I was a little-leaguer, but that only lasted a couple of years. I didn’t really suck at it, but the word mediocre definitely springs to mind. Craig could only take so much humiliation. At the start of the third season he sat me down and asked if I was going to ‘buckle down and take this serious.’  
  
“But dad, aren’t games supposed to be fun?” was not the response he wanted to hear. After that, he spent his Saturdays on the golf course while my mother and I often took in the museums, galleries, parks, concerts and theatre productions that Pittsburgh had to offer. I can hardly believe this man was shocked when I finally came out.   
  
Gus is a different story however. He’s good. He’s a natural. I suspect his father was also, although I can’t imagine Jack offering much support to his son and his athletic abilities.   
  
I took my seat in a folding chair next to Lindsay and JR while Mel joined the tribe of parents whose job it is to run back and forth on the sidelines and harass the referees whenever they made a call against Gus’s team. Had I played soccer, Craig would have been one of them.   
  
One man was particularly vocal, and I noticed that each time he spoke, Lindsay either rolled her eyes or shook her head dismissively. At one point she leaned over and said, “It’s so embarrassing, one of these times he’s going to get us disqualified. I pity his poor wife.” She discreetly pointed to a lone woman sitting silently about 20 yards away.   
  
“Who is he?” I asked.  
  
“Brad Stevens. His son is number twelve. Kyle. The one who you said was picking on Gus. What was that all about?”  
  
“Nothing really. You know how kids are. There always seems to be one you just don’t get along with in school, and I think that kid is Kyle for Gus.”  
  
“Well, he is sort of a bully, but seeing his dad, can you blame him?”  
  
That statement made me wonder. What is it that causes a child to either emulate that behavior or do the exact opposite? Mr. Stevens reminded me of how Brian described his father. However, Jack’s aggression was turned toward his son rather than at someone else. Kyle probably looked up to his dad and tried to be like him while Brian couldn’t put enough distance between himself and his father. Maybe, in some ways, Jack had done him a favor. I decided to try and do one for Gus.   
  
Grabbing my sketchpad and chair, I told Lindz I was going to do some drawing and wanted to get a different angle on the game. I repositioned myself a little way down field in a spot that just happened to be next to Mrs. Stevens. It was no surprise that the woman was dying for civil conversation. We established fairly quickly which child belonged to whom, the fact that she was a legal secretary, and I was an artist who lived in the states. She asked to see some of the sketches I had done of Gus and oohed and ahhed at all the appropriate times.   
  
“Would you like me do draw one of Kyle?”  
  
“Oh my goodness…yes! Could you? Would you?”  
  
“Why sure, it’s no problem for a friend of Gus’s.”  
  
I spent a few minutes studying Kyle on the field and the pictures of him she kept in her wallet. Every now and then Mr. Stevens and the angry mob would pass by, and she would call to his attention the progress being made on their son’s portrait. The fact that someone else was paying attention to his boy made me an instant ally, and soon his random fly-bys became stopovers. He’d squat down next to me and make sure I took note of the kid’s height, bone structure or some other irrelevant feature that was never going to show up on the sketch anyway. But I was polite and feigned interest. Mel stopped to look, too, and she smiled silently. She was on to me.   
  
Once the basic outline was sketched, I decided to add color. My watercolor pencils were over by Lindsay however, so I moved once again.   
  
“What are you up to?” she asked as I sat back down.   
  
“Just doing a little PR work for Gus,” I said as I showed her the sketch.  
  
“Oh, Justin, how sweet.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I figured once the parents are won over, the kid may follow.”  
  
The picture was a wrap just minutes before the game’s final whistle. Gus bounded over to us triumphantly after his team won 4 to 2.  
  
“Congratulations, buddy, you were great”, I told him as I ruffled his hair.   
  
“Did you draw me?”  
  
“I did,” I replied as I handed him two pictures. “One is of you and the other is of Kyle.” Gus looked at me wide eyed and slack jawed. I leaned in and mumbled, “I think he’s coming over to get it, right now.”  
  
Gus turned in time to see the Steven’s family approaching. “Give it to him.”  
  
Holding out Kyle’s sketch, Gus stammered, “Um…here…this is for you. My dad made it.” Kyle reached out and took the picture and looked up tentatively at his father. “What do you say, Kyle?” was Mr. Steven’s response.  
  
Kyle looked at the picture and then at me. “It’s cool…thanks.” Mr. Steven interrupted at that point and asked if we’d all like to join them for lunch and ice cream to celebrate the win.   
  
“Thanks for the offer,” Lindsay replied, “but it’s time for Jenny’s nap.”  
  
“Justin and Gus could go though.” Mel interjected.  
  
I looked at Gus to make the decision, and he was nodding frantically. “I don’t have a car,” I advised the Stevens.   
  
“No problem, ride with us. I’m sure the boys will have plenty to talk about.”  
  
And they did. They talked and talked and laughed and talked some more. They barely shut up long enough to eat their chicken nuggets. I’m not sure if any fast friendships were formed yesterday, but I’m fairly certain the teasing is history. I’m pretty damn proud of myself.   
  
I know it’s not right but I am beginning to see why Brian has always preferred his cameo role in Gus’s life. Mel and Lindz get the tedium while we get to ride in every now and then and be the knight in shining armor. Not fair…I know…but I’m lovin’ it!   
  
**Monday, April 30th, 2007**  
  
I’m in the air again for the short flight to Pittsburgh. I suspected the reason Lindz insisted on taking me to the airport alone was to converse about the one person she couldn’t bring up around Gus, and I was right.   
  
We had barely made it out of their neighborhood when she began.  
  
“Justin, I’m so sorry if I contributed in any way to the problems you and Brian are having.”  
  
“What?! What makes you think you have contributed?”  
  
“Well, I know I pushed pretty hard for you to go to New York. After all, if I hadn’t involved Simon, he wouldn’t have written that article and you would never have gone. You might be a happily married man right now.”  
  
I let out an exasperated breath and shook my head. "Lindsay, come on. Do you really believe I didn’t want New York for myself? Regardless of what happened with Brian, I still feel indebted to you for helping to get me there. If you hadn’t, how would I have ever found out that I could make it on my own? And if there had never been a New York, there probably would never have been a Rome.”  
  
“That’s kind of you to say, but what about Brian? What about the wedding?”  
  
“Well, yeah, there is that. But who’s to say I’d be happily married right now? Can you seriously imagine Brian Kinney happily married?”  
  
“Honestly,” we were at a stop light and she turned to look at me, “yes, I can.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“He’s changed Justin. Maybe not to the untrained eye but I can feel it. He still loves you.”  
  
“Well, he has a pretty lousy way of showing it.”  
  
“Damn it, Justin, he has the best way of showing it. Can’t you see that?”  
  
I don’t think Lindsay had ever raised her voice to me before and I was shocked.   
  
“No, Lindsay, I can’t see it. Since when is pushing the person you love away, flaunting your liaisons with other men, and avoiding of any type of communication the best way to show how much you care about someone?”  
  
Now I was mad and she looked sick.   
  
“I’m sorry, Justin, I’ve said too much. But believe me, Brian just wants you to be happy.”  
  
“Yeah…sure.”  
  
“I’m glad you’re going back to school in Pittsburgh.”  
  
“It’s not for certain yet. I still have a lot of hoops to jump through.”  
  
“Well, if anybody can do it, you can.”  
  
“Thanks, Lindz.”  
  
We left it at that and said our goodbyes at the airport. But now, the conversation - or at least her half of it - keeps running through my brain.   
  
_Honestly, yes I can. He’s changed. He still loves you. I’ve said too much._  
  
Lindsay knows something I don’t. But whatever it is, I hope she’s right. God, I hope he’s waiting at the airport.   



	28. Chapter 22

  
Author's notes:   


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**Sunday, May 27th, 2007 – 10:15 a.m. - Mom’s, Pittsburgh**  
Listening to: Jason Mraz – [Mr. Curiosity](http://rapidshare.de/files/9221737/10_Mr._Curiosity.m4a.html)  
  
I’ve been back for a little over three weeks and have yet to gather the courage to confront Brian. I’ve kept myself busy with people to see and things to wrap up. Thinking - hoping, actually - that we would somehow magically run into each other under just the right circumstances. No family, no friends, and no business to attend to. Just Brian and Justin and time and words. Rather than force the issue, I did everything possible to avoid it, and the more time passed, the larger the encounter loomed in my mind.  
  
Seats were limited at the actual graduation ceremony, so I didn’t expect to see Brian there. But the party mom was giving afterwards would be a likely time for him to make an appearance. By 7:45, however, I was pretty certain he was not going to show. Disappointing Taylors was an art he had perfected through years of practice. I had warned Molly not to expect him so she was prepared. The party was moving along nicely though, and she had lots of other friends and family showering her with attention.   
  
It had been a long day, and the stress of wondering when or if he would appear and what I would say to him if he did had definitely taken its toll. The pain that had started in my shoulder had worked its way up my neck and was now pulsing behind my left eye. I needed to take a handful of Advil and lie down someplace quiet or I was going to have a raging migraine.   
  
At the first possible break in conversation, I excused myself and made a quick dash for the stairs. I found the pain reliever in the bathroom, swallowed several and headed across the hall to the guest room. It was dark and cool and relatively quiet. In other words, it felt like Heaven when my head hit the pillow. I had come full circle; grew up sleeping in this bed, moved away, went to Hollywood, came back, nearly got married, went to New York, went to Rome, and now I was here again, right where I started. The bed was the same but the person was not. I was no longer the wide eyed innocent who left his parents' home seven years ago. A lifetime ago.   
  
I was back for a purpose. My fellowship in Rome convinced me that I wanted to finish my degree. So what if I went about things ass backwards? I wanted this degree for myself and no one else. It no longer mattered if it would further my career. It would further my mind and the career could wait. I had already met with the dean at PIFA. The fellowship and the work I did in Rome was impressive. That, along with the time spent in Hollywood, earned me enough credit to graduate next June. I will be taking a few courses over the summer and then hitting it with a full load and senior standing in September. If I have to live with my mother for a year in order to accomplish that, so be it.  
  
The pain in my head was easing, and the voices downstairs were becoming an unintelligible murmur. I was just dozing off when the door bell woke me with a start. I listened intently for the greeting. "Brian!" I heard my mother exclaim as my heart jumped to my throat. I just wanted to stay here. Let him make his appearance and be gone...but wouldn't that only serve to prolong the agony? I had to face him sometime and, at least under these circumstances, there couldn't be a scene. I would be polite, he would be polite and the ice would be broken. Besides, I needed to know if he still looked as fucking amazing as he did the last time I saw him. Seventeen long months ago.   
  
I needn't have wondered. Of course he did. I walked down the stairs, scanned the room and our eyes locked. He bent down, gave my mother a kiss on the cheek and politely excused himself from her company. Heading toward the stairs, he met me near the landing.   
  
"Justin."  
  
"Brian."  
  
And there we stood in an awkward silence. He reached out first and we embraced in a quick, clumsy hug. I stepped back and looked at him from head to toe. Fuck, I didn't need my dick to tell me he was gorgeous but for some reason it felt compelled to do so.   
  
"It was nice of you to come. I'm sure Molly really appreciates it."  
  
He squinted at that, possibly grasping the underlying meaning. I continued, "How have you been?"  
  
"Fine and you?"  
  
"Great."  
  
"When did you get back from Rome?"  
  
"A few weeks ago."  
  
"Have you been in New York?"  
  
"For a few days, but mostly I’ve been here. I'm not living in New York at the moment. I'm going back to PIFA to finish my degree."  
  
"Oh...good...I hope that's what you want. I don't think you'll ever regret it."  
  
"I know what I want, Brian, and I don't regret much anymore."  
  
Deb must have been monitoring the conversation from afar and could sense my growing uneasiness. If I had been expecting any sort of apology or explanation from him for his past behavior, I knew I wasn't going to get it here but this small talk was turning into more than I could take. She swooped in, put her arm around my shoulder and kissed my cheek. Beaming back at Brian she asked, "He looks great doesn't he?" With a grin and a nod, he replied, "Yes...yes he does. Excuse me, you two. I haven’t congratulated the guest of honor yet. Looks like she’s about to open my gift.”   
  
I closed my eyes and nodded. When I opened them, he was gone. I turned to Deb. "You two have a lot to sort out, but now is not the time and this is not the place." 

I nodded again and said, "I just need to get out of here for awhile, Deb." She fished in her pocket and produced the keys to Carl's car. Handing them to me she suggested, "Go get your mom some more ice. Take your time; she's still got two bags in the freezer. Once he notices that you're gone, I don't think he'll be sticking around long." 

I hugged her and said, "Thanks." I could feel his eyes on me as I turned and headed out the door.   
  
Deb had arrived early to help my mom, so the car was right in front. I pulled out into traffic and passed Brian's 'vette about a half block down the street. Good, I thought, at least I'll know if he has left when I get back. I was glad I saw him and that we had talked civilly. The initial contact needed to be made, but the hard part is still ahead. There is an elephant in the room with us and we are going to have to face it, head on.  
  
I know now, after seeing him, that I can not be his friend. I am not a big enough person for that. It would take years until I could sit across from him at Deb's dinner table and make polite conversation if I was not going home with him. The thought of ever having to watch someone else get to do that is simply unimaginable. I know I have grown, but I also know now, that I have not grown out of him. Trevor and Antonio helped me see that I can be happy, productive, and successful, independent of Brian, but not if I have to face him on a daily or even weekly basis.   
  
Pittsburgh is a big town and I am only committed to staying here for one year. If Brian and I are through, I will simply remove myself from his life. But that is not an answer I am ready to accept without him telling me to my face. I am also not ready to accept the old Brian Kinney back into my life, and there in lies the dilemma. So confrontation time has come. I will initiate it if I have to because I can not continue living in this limbo.  



	29. Chapter 23

  
Author's notes:   


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**Sunday, May 27th, 2007 – 9:20 a.m. – The Loft**  
Listening to: Cary Brothers - [Blue Eyes](http://rapidshare.de/files/9221832/11_Blue_Eyes.m4a.html)  
  
Attending a family party for a high school graduate is usually a humdrum but unthreatening event, even for someone as family-phobic as me. I’d buy an expensive gift, make an appearance, charm the graduate and the graduate’s immediate family, eat as little of the rich, indigestible food as possible, drink discreetly, and then get the hell out of Dodge. Short and sweet. In the case of Molly Taylor’s party, however, I knew it might be short, but I doubted that my first encounter with Justin in seventeen months was going to be sweet. I was dreading it. I guessed that his reaction to seeing me was going to be distant but polite, but I couldn’t count on it. He might refuse to speak to me; he might even get into a hissing argument with me. My favorite scenario had him flinging himself on me, saying, “Brian, take me upstairs and fuck me until I beg for mercy.” In my rational moments, I knew that the likelihood of that was poor.   
  
I fortified myself with a quick drink before I left home and deliberately got to the graduation party late. I figured that by the time I arrived, Justin would be there. I didn’t think my nervous system could deal with being the first to arrive, then jumping every time the door opened.  
  
I rang the bell and half hoped he would be the one to answer the door. That way I could pull him outside, and the initial meeting could be done in private. No such luck. Jennifer Taylor greeted me with a loud, enthusiastic, “Brian!” causing several heads to turn my way, none of them were blond. She welcomed me into the living room, and I took a quick sweep of its population. _Debbie, Michael, Ben, there’s Molly engrossed in conversation with a group of high school friends, I’m guessing that’s a set of grandparents and several other family members who were foreign to me but no Justin. Must be in the kitchen._ Jennifer turned and thanked me for coming. As I leaned down to kiss her cheek, I caught a movement on the stairs out of the corner of my eye. That almost extra-sensory sensitivity I have to Justin told me who it was. Without turning my head, I handed Molly’s present to Jen (a Louis Vuitton carry-on, to insure that Molly left home in style) and said, “If you’ll excuse me for a moment?”   
  
As she murmured something polite, I turned and looked at him, and it took all my self-control to keep from crossing my arms over my midriff and bending over until I could catch my breath. I felt like I had taken a punch to the gut. Instead, I found myself unthinkingly climbing the three steps up to the landing. The world had narrowed down to Justin-on-the-stairs. I could still hear the babble of conversations around me, but my mind processed none of it. I think I managed to look unconcerned; I tried; I don’t know if I succeeded.   
  
He looked tired and a little pale. His eyebrows were drawn together, and his eyes were at half-mast. From long experience, I diagnosed a headache. But other than the headache, he looked fine. The arms were maybe a little more toned, and he looked slightly older…maybe all of seventeen or eighteen.  
  
I said, "Justin." _Keep it low key until you see how he wants this to go. I don’t want to say anything that might embarrass him, anything that will make this more awkward than it inevitably is._  
  
"Brian."   
  
_Damn, this really does feel uncomfortable. You’re supposed to be a man of the world, Brian. Do something._  
  
I moved closer and put my arms around him. He embraced me, but he didn’t lean into the hug or soften his body at all. It was a clumsy embrace, but it rewarded me with the scent of Justin: unfamiliar cologne, my Masquintense shampoo (he spent $35 of his own money on my shampoo?) and underneath both, the unique smell that is Justin.  
  
He said, "It was nice of you to come. I'm sure Molly really appreciates it. How have you been?"   
  
_My God, Justin, is that the best you can do? Give me something to work with here._  
  
"Fine and you?" _Not that I’m doing any better._  
  
"Great."  
  
"When did you get back from Rome?"  
  
"A few weeks ago."  
  
 _Huh._ "Where have you been? New York?"

"For a few days, but mostly I’ve been here. I'm not living in New York at the moment. I'm going back to PIFA to finish my degree."  
  
 _Huh!_ "Oh...good... _(wonderful, actually)_ I hope that's what you want. I don't think you'll ever regret it." _Not if I can help it, anyway._  
  
"I know what I want, Brian, and I don't regret much anymore."  
  
 _What the fuck…? What the hell does that mean?_  
  
I raised my eyebrows, about to ask him some innocuous question about PIFA when Debbie intervened. She put an arm around Justin, gave him a squeeze, and said, "He looks great, doesn't he?"  
  
I said, "Yes...yes, he does. Excuse me, you two. I haven’t congratulated the guest of honor yet. Looks like she’s about to open my gift,” and I ambled off. I can tell when Debbie’s managing a situation, and this appeared to be one of those times. Apparently she thought Justin had had enough Kinney conversation. She might even have been right.  
  
I went over and teased Molly a little and congratulated Jen on her poised daughter, but my antennae were directed toward Justin the whole time. Despite all the competing noise, I could hear his voice, if not his words. It didn’t take a genius to guess that I was the topic of conversation. Then I heard the front door open, and I turned just enough to catch a glimpse of an expensive blue T-shirt exiting.   
  
I made the rounds of the room, had a beer with Michael and Ben, ignored all the speculative glances bouncing off my back, and left as soon as I could. Justin hadn’t returned to the house. I was definitely being avoided. Oh, well, gay Pittsburgh isn’t that large. If he keeps on avoiding me, I’ll track him down. I’ll bet any number of people will be happy to help, just for the sheer drama of our reunion. Me, I just want to get into his pants. I know that if I can fuck him once, just once, this separation will be o-v-e-r. OVER.


	30. Chapter 24

  
Author's notes:   


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**Monday, May 28th, 2007 – 9:45 a.m. – Home**  
Listening to: Rob Thomas - [All That I Am](http://rapidshare.de/files/9429408/12_All_That_I_Am.m4a.html)  
  
Memorial Day. How fitting is that? I am  going to remember this one for a very long time. 

 Babylon celebrated the start of summer with an Abs contest last night. We did well, despite the fact that a lot of people head out of town for the long weekend. By 10:30 the crowd was decent, and more people continued to file in.   
  
Only a small fraction of my mind was assessing the crowd as I watched from the catwalk. Most of my thoughts were about Justin. Was his exit Saturday part of a larger plan to avoid me permanently or just an understandable discomfort because our first meeting was so public? At least I now knew I had some time in which to seduce him, thank God.  
  
I hadn’t expected to see him at Babylon when suddenly, that blond head registered on my radar. It was cutting across the dance floor purposefully, headed for the bar. I could stay where I was and let him seek me out, but I wasn’t interested in a power play. I wasn’t going to be coy. Besides a drink seemed like a good idea.  
  
I made my way down the catwalk and walked up behind him. When his scent hit me, I didn’t care whether I had that drink or not. I wrapped my hand around his chin, turned his face in my direction, and covered his mouth with mine. I kissed him softly, gently. He didn’t respond for a long moment, then his lips softened, he turned fully toward me, and his hands came up to rest on my bare biceps. I deepened the kiss…God, it felt good…it felt like home…and I ran my hands down his back to cup his buttocks. He squirmed against me, then pulled back abruptly, his eyes wide in the flashing lights. “Brian,” he gasped.   
  
I jerked my head in the direction of the dance floor. “C’mon,” I said and pulled him after me. “I’ve waited a long time for this.” His eyes were on mine as we started swaying to the music, swaying that quickly turned into grinding. His hands were on my shoulders, and mine were firmly on his hips. He tilted his head back to look up at me, his face still serious, and I dropped my head into the crook of his neck, kissing and nibbling. He gasped. I know how sensitive that area is and how aroused he gets when you pay attention to it. Sure enough, something hard was rubbing against my thigh. I slid one hand between our bodies and cupped his dick. Another gasp, and then his hand was on the back of my head, guiding my mouth down to his. This time our kiss was rough and needy, our lips smashed together, tongues mating. We were both gasping when we broke for air.  
  
“Now,” I said, pulling him in the direction of the back room.  
  
But he resisted, he stood firmly in place on the dance floor, “No, Brian. No.”  
  
“It’s O.K., Justin. You’ll like what I’ve done here. My improvements.” I have a private room now. It’s not used often, but it’s there for when it’s needed. Like now.  
  
“Brian, I want to talk to you but not here. It’s too fucking noisy”  
  
Actually, all we needed to do was fuck, and for that the noise worked just fine. This was not the time to start an argument, however, so I said, “The loft?” He nodded, and I asked, “Will you wait here? I have to see the MC and the club manager before I can leave.”   
  
Our only conversation in the car was the conversation I like best: our bodies talked. I ran my hand over his thighs, between his legs, and up to his crotch. He gasped and squirmed and, when I laid my hand over his cock, grabbed it and pressed it against him, hard. A good sign, I thought.  
  
I parked in the usual spot and he let himself out as I unlocked the door to the lobby. Opening it, he breezed past me, hands in his jacket pockets. He called the elevator and we rode up, silently eyeing each other.   
  
As soon as I got the door to the loft shut, I backed him up against it and clamped my mouth down on his. For a moment, he kissed me back, as urgently as I was kissing him, but then he pushed me away – fucker is strong – and said, “Stop it. We came here to talk, remember?”  
  
He may have come here to talk; I came here to fuck. But I knew I wasn’t going to realize my objective until he’d talked. “O.K.,” I said. “Want something to drink?”   
  
Justin shook his head No, and I followed him over to the couch, never taking my eyes off him, scrutinizing his body language for clues as to where this was going. It seemed to me that, as he approached the couch, his shoulders squared up and his posture got stiffer. Damn. Then before he was close enough to sit down, he turned. His posture was definitely combative. Double damn.  
  
“Don’t think you’re going to fuck your way out of explaining yourself, Brian. You’re going to tell me exactly what you think, in your fucked up mind, is going on between us.”  
  
“I think you’re here in Pittsburgh finally, and my dick and I are both happy to see you.”  
  
“And you think that clears everything up? Your dick is happy, so you’re happy? Well, that won’t work this time. After you missed my art show…probably the most important event in my professional career up to that time…I made up my mind that that was IT. I wasn’t going to be jerked around anymore. No more taking second place to your job; no more trying to figure out your screwy mental processes.”  
  
His voice was even, but his eyes were blazing. I knew that our relationship was hanging on my response. God, is it any wonder I hate talking about feelings and relationships? They’re a quagmire, and I could already feel myself sinking into the muck. I looked down at the floor, trying to marshal my thoughts. The floor wasn’t very helpful.   
  
“I’m sorry about missing the Art Show, Justin. But sorry doesn’t change anything. Can’t we put it behind us?”  
  
“It’s not that simple, Brian. It’s not just my show. I have been dead to you for well over a year. Aside from the one measly phone call, you have made no attempt to contact me. Not when I sent you a card or left you a message or even when you came to New York. How dare you?”   
  
_Wha-at? Sure, I was in New York before he left for Rome…and a couple of times afterwards too…but how does he know…?_ I narrowed my eyes at him. “New York?” I asked.  
  
“Don’t give me that innocent bullshit! I saw you in that cab, checking out my place and me.” _Busted._ “And I know you went to the White Party afterwards. You had the time and the energy to go to Crobar, but you couldn’t manage to pick up the phone and call, could you? Much less see me.”  
  
 _Damn it. How the hell does he know about Crobar?_ “Justin, by that time I hadn’t heard from you in months. I figured you had a boyfriend. I knew you’d moved on. Why would I call you?”  
  
“You FIGURED I had a boyfriend? Oh my God, Brian! And why would you call me? Hmm…how about because you took me in when my Dad threw me out? Or because you helped me get over the bashing? Maybe because we lived together, off and on, for five years and we were a couple for most of that time? Does any of this sound vaguely familiar to you? Hmm? “ He was in my face, our noses nearly touching and his voice rose with every statement. _Damn, if I could just get my tongue in that mouth he’d shut up. But nooo…here comes round three._

“I know. I think you might have called me because we were engaged! Because we almost got married! Because you said you loved me.”   
  
He paused to catch his breath, step back and regain some composure. “Oh yes, by the way, Trevor was never my boyfriend. Fuck buddy, yes. Boyfriend, no. You would have known that if you had ever bothered to ask. He left for the coast shortly after that White Party. We were only together for a couple of months, and most of that time, I went steadier with my hand than with Trevor.”   
  
He paused again, and I thought uneasily about what to say that would bring the conversation back to where we should be and how soon we could get naked. But, once again, Justin had only paused for breath. He continued, “And it wasn’t enough that you finally came to New York and ignored me, was it, Brian? You had to make sure I knew it, didn’t you? You had to rub my face in it by fucking Danny. That was close to unforgivable.”  
  
 _What the fuck was he talking about?_ “Danny? Who the hell is Danny?”  
  
“You know very well who Danny is! That was a nice touch, a typical Brian Kinney ‘up yours.’ You’ll be happy to know it hurt. It hurt like hell, and it still hurts whenever I think about it which, thankfully, isn’t so often any more.”  
  
“Justin, for God’s sake, what the fuck are you talking about? I fucked somebody named Danny? When? Where? Give me a hint.”  
  
“You need a hint? Here’s a fucking hint.” He was screaming now, and I could feel my own temper rising in response. “You fucked Danny at the White Party…or were you so wasted you don’t remember having your dick up his ass? You even gave him one of those expensive calling-card cum-cloths you call a handkerchief afterwards. The ones embroidered BAK, remember?”   
  
I took two steps toward him, then one more. Now I was in his face. “Yeah, I remember fucking a guy that night. Yeah, he kept my handkerchief. But I have no idea what his name was, nor do I give a damn. It didn’t mean anything more to me than any other goddamn back room anonymous fuck.” Now I was yelling, too.  
  
Justin didn’t flinch. “Ri-ight,” he sneered and turned away from me. “Like I’m supposed to believe you got Trevor Conley’s name and never did any checking up on him?” He looked over his shoulder, “You didn’t know or give a damn that Danny and Trevor were roommates and that Danny would be on the phone to me, filling me in on all the details of a Kinney fuck almost before he got his pants zipped up?”  
  
There are very few times in my life when I’ve been shocked into incoherence. This was one of them. I grabbed Justin by the shoulders and swung him around to face me, almost lifting him off his feet. “What the FUCK! Are you crazy? That was Trevor’s roommate? How would I know that? Check up on him? Don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t even know the guy’s name. And he asked me if he could keep the handkerchief. I didn’t offer it to him. Fuck, Justin! You are fucking nuts. And paranoid, on top of it!” _Eight million people in the naked city, and I end up banging Justin’s fuck buddy’s roommate. How bizarre is that? If I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all._  
  
“Are you trying to tell me it was a coincidence?”  
  
“Yes,” I yelled, “a goddamn, fucking, nearly unbelievable coincidence! Jesus.” I pulled him to me and ground my mouth against his. He leaned into me, his body sagging, and gave me his mouth, his lips softening and opening for me. But the little fucker still wasn’t done talking. Christ Almighty!   
  
“What about when I called you from Rome?”  
  
“What about it?”  
  
“Why didn’t you at least return my call?”  
  
“So you could come running back here before you finished another commitment? No thank you, Justin.”  
  
“Brian, I can’t continue to play these mind games with you. I need to know.”  
  
I felt his hands at my waist, working on the top button of my jeans. “Bed,” I choked out. I unsnapped his jeans and stuck my hand down into his pants. Hard, as hard as me…maybe.  
  
He shook his head, “Not yet.”   
  
Holy hell. My mind raced. I think I would have said anything…absolutely anything…at that moment if it would have resulted in his face in the mattress and his ass in the air. My mouth however was not cooperating. “What do you need to know, Justin? Tell me and I’ll say it!” _Oh fuck…did I just say that?_  
  
“If I have to tell you…it doesn’t,” I cut him off with another kiss. I wrapped myself around him again, kissing, touching, yanking at clothes, rubbing against him. Any time between this moment and the moment my dick was safely in his ass was too long. I wanted to be inside him now, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen without the right words from me.   
  
I pulled away, took a deep breath, raised my hands to his shoulders and looked into his eyes. “I love you, Justin. I have never stopped loving you. I loved you enough to let you make your own way in the world and return, hopefully, to me, having accomplished something worthwhile. Something you can be as proud of as I am of you. I was wrong to let it go on for so long and to make assumptions about you. I was wrong to ever doubt you and I will never…ever do it again.”   
  
He pulled away from me, grabbed my hand, and led me toward the bed, both of us stopping and starting, hopping and stumbling as we shed clothes on the way. We fell on the bed together, and I reached for the lube. “This is going to be fast and hard,” I ground out.   
  
“God, yes,” he said.  
  
I lubed my fingers and thrust them into his anus roughly. I scissored them vigorously, and he moaned and arched his back. I closed my teeth around his nipple, pulled back and tweaked it with my teeth. His eyes opened, and he gasped, “Oh god…please, Brian.”  
  
“Ready?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
I lubed my dick, pushed his legs up, and started to enter him.  
  
He pushed on my shoulders, hard, and yelled, “Brian! What the hell are you doing?”  
  
I sat back. “Fucking you,” I said quietly.  
  
“Where are your condoms? Where are they?” He was fumbling at the bedside table.  
  
“Don’t need one,” I said and then asked, “Do you?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Your friend Danny…I haven’t had my dick in anyone else’s ass since that night.”  
  
“You haven’t fucked anybody in a year?”  
  
“I didn’t think it was going to be a year when I stopped, but then you went to Italy. You have terrible timing, Justin.”  
  
“I’ll say. So…what _have_ you been doing?”  
  
“For most of the time I was still getting my dick sucked regularly. I know the risk is small, but I didn’t want any risk, any risk at all for you, so about a month after my sainted mother died, I started going steady with my right hand. On April 15th, to be exact.”  
  
His mouth was hanging open and his eyes were open so far they were almost round. “No fucking or sucking for….”  
  
“Almost two months. And I was tested a few weeks ago. I’m clean.”   
  
“Me too,” he whispered, and I couldn’t seem to get the smile off my face.   
  
“Oh my fucking God, Brian.” He swarmed up me, his mouth all over me. He assaulted my mouth, and I fell back on the bed. I reached for him and pulled him down, too. He reared up over me and said, “This time we’re going through with it. We’re getting married.”  
  
“Okay. But right now…right now I’m really, really, horny.”   
  
He laughed and the room lit up. “I don’t doubt a word you say.”  
  
“OK then, I want to see elbows and asshole right now,” I said, trying to make my voice harsh.   
  
His face turned serious, “No, I want to see you. Do you want me under you or on top of you?”  
  
“Under me,” I whispered, “You know, I’m losing my virginity tonight. First time. Ever.”  
  
He sucked in his breath. “Jesus. We both are.”  
  
I straightened up and kissed him as I pushed his back to the mattress. He lifted his legs to my shoulders and positioned my cock at his entrance. I gritted my teeth and pushed into his hole in a single, fluid, motion, then paused. So tight. So fucking tight. “It feels…it feels…intimate, Justin. Jesus Christ. Fucking intimate. Nothing between us. Just you…and me in you.” I pulled back and rammed in again, then tried to pause and savor the moment. My body refused to cooperate. My body…my cock…wanted more. I gave it more.  
  
Justin was pushing back and whimpering, “Oh my god, Brian. God, God. Touch me. Now. Please.”  
  
I wasn’t going to last anyway, so I dropped my hand from his leg and wrapped it around his swollen cock. All it took was that one tight clasp, and he was shaking and mewing deep in his throat. I followed him immediately, filling him with my semen. When I opened my eyes, I noticed his were wet. A trail of a tear led to the pillowcase. He lowered his legs as I bent down to kiss the wet spot on his face. He was so tight that even as my dick softened, it remained trapped inside him. I ran my hand slowly down his body and said, “Next time, it’s your turn.”  
  
“Mmmm. Yes ” I could feel his smile. “Fuck, yes, whenever you’re ready.”  
  
I knew it would work. If I could just fuck him once, he’d want to stay. And stay he has. I’m looking through the doors of the bedroom as I write this. I wore him out, so he is still sleeping, tangled in my sheets once again. I am home. Finally.  
  
 **Monday, May 28th, 2007 – Noon - Pittsburgh, the Loft…Home**  
Listening to: Bright Eyes - [First Day of My Life](http://rapidshare.de/files/9429432/13_First_Day_of_My_Life.m4a.html)  
  
Silly boy. You didn’t shut down your computer before you left to run those specs over to work. Thanks for leaving me coffee, and I hope you plan on bringing some food home because I can not live on sex alone. Maybe for a few days, or weeks, but eventually I will need protein other than what you produce.   
  
And, by the way, I was not screaming at you last night. I don’t scream. I was simply accentuating to make my point. As long as we are on this subject (of your journal), I feel I must straighten a few other things out also. I am not a bastard, a smackass or lesbianic. I do not wheedle, whine, get pissy with or scowl at you. In addition, that was not very nice of you to just hang up on Trevor like that when he was being so polite. The poor man had just endured hours of listening to me extol your virtues, and you hung up on him! What a smackass you are!   
  
You did get some things correct, however. I am graceful and I do smolder and quiver well, don’t I? I am also imaginative, coordinated, sincere, talented (both in and out of bed), enthusiastic and sympathetic. I do buy expensive shampoo now and cry on the phone to Lindsay when you are not part of my life. Just like I cried when I read that you have a mental “Tell Justin” folder.   
  
So, you know what, Mr. Kinney? When you are finished reading this, turn and look at me and then you will really know what Justin in love looks like. And after you do that, take me upstairs and fuck me until I beg for mercy.  



	31. Chapter 25

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

Dear Dad,

I am getting married. I only plan to do this once in my life, and I didn't want the opportunity to pass without telling you that it would mean a lot to me if you would attend.

I know you have never approved of Brian's and my relationship, but I also know you understand the importance of sharing your life with the person you love. I hope you would want me to have that experience also. I am not jumping into this rashly. I have known Brian for seven years and I assure you, I have never been more certain of anything. He is the love of my life.

You taught me many things, Dad. One of which is the importance of family to a child. Brian has lost each of his parents, making me realize all the more how much I want a relationship with both mom and you. If we decide to raise a child or children in the future, I hope they will have a grandfather they can look up to.

I also hope you will not deny yourself this experience or the experience of getting to know your son-in-law. He is an amazing person, Dad. You took me from a child to an adolescent, and Brian taught me how to be a man. You two have been the most influential men in my life, and I regret that I cannot have both of you in it at the same time.

So I extend this invitation to you and your guest. I would like to make amends but I leave the final decision up to you. Either way, know that I am happy.

Sincerely and with love,

Justin  



	32. Chapter 25.1

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**July 5, 2007**

 

Dear Brian and Justin,

It seemed sort of silly to send a simple RSVP back for such a monumental event. So instead, we are sending Gus’s wedding present to you a little early. He has been sorting through pictures and working on this for nearly two years, and we are overjoyed to finally be able to give it to you. He learned some keyboarding in school this year, and he will write you his own note in a minute. He insists I let him do it himself. I wonder where he got his stubborn streak.

First however, Mel and I just wanted to say we are incredibly pleased that the two of you have finally come to your senses. Your commitment to each other has given us pause to step back and examine our own relationship and that of our children. We came to Toronto thinking it was going to be the best thing for our family. But as it turns out, we now realize that there are prejudices everywhere and trying to run from them isn’t the answer. I know you tried to tell me that, Brian, and I’m sorry I didn’t listen.

We do not regret, however, the growth we have experienced here. Having to forge ahead without the help of family and friends has strengthened our marriage. But leaving behind all of those whom we love and who love us was not easy, and it just seems to get harder with each passing day.

Your joyful news made us realize what is really best for Gus and JR, and that is having all of their parents together to raise them. So, this is my long-winded way of telling you we will be moving back to Pittsburgh. Jennifer is already looking for a rental. We will all be at the wedding, and then I am planning on staying with the kids while Mel comes back here to wrap things up.

Congratulations. We love you, we are happy for you, and we will see you in a few weeks!

Lindsay

 

### Dear Dads,  
  
I think that it is reall good that you are getting marry cus that is what I wanted for a long long long time and I hope you like the picturer. I am glad you want me to be you ring bear I will do it and I will do a reall good job I pramiss.  
  
I love you.  
XO XO  
Gus 

  



	33. Chapter 26

  
Author's notes: This is the last chapter of Announcements, but I will start posting Announcements: Honeymoon on March 23. I will post short fics the rest of this week, then I will be on hiatus until the 23rd. Play quietly among yourselves. FanSee  


* * *

Sunday, July 29th, 2007 – 11:15 a.m. – Home  
Listening to: Ottmar Liebert – Barcelona Nights  
Nope – Oliver James – The Greatest Story Ever Told  
  
What are you doing?  
  
 _I want this picture to go in my journal and I want it associated with that song._  
  
Have you ever heard of copying and pasting, Justin? It can go in your journal, too.  
  
 _Or we could just keep one journal now since we’re married._  
  
Suck my ass.   
  
_I did, remember?_  
  
I gave you a perfectly wonderful laptop a couple of Christmas’s ago. Go use it.  
  
 _Can we just do this one together? You know, a wedding one? Then I’ll copy it and put it in my journal too._  
  
Where the fuck did you get this song? And you say you’re NOT lesbianic? I rest my case.   
  
_Shut up. I like it.  
  
When we finish, I’ll cut and paste this into my journal, and then you can do one all your own if you want. You don’t have to write much. Just put down what you remembered about the wedding, and then I’ll do the same._  
  
And then you’ll drop it?  
  
 _Yup._  
  
Promises, promises. I remember all too much because, thanks to you, I was damn near sober. Some of my memories are down right horrific.  
  
 _Horrific? I wouldn’t go that far._  
  
I would. I could handle Debbie crying, I expected Emmett to cry, but Michael? That’s just plain embarrassing. Then there was the wedding cake. Could you and Emmett have come up with anything more calorie-laden than that concoction? What was wrong with my suggestion?  
  
 _There is no such thing as an angel food wedding cake. We explained that to you._  
  
And your dad, I gotta tell you, that was weird having him standing in the back like that.  
  
 _Hey, he showed up and kept his mouth shut. I was really nervous he was going to say something during that “speak now or forever hold your peace” part._  
  
I think if he had said anything, Ben would have made sure he was holding his piece…detached from his body.   
  
_Well, even though he didn’t stay or say anything to us, it’s a start, Brian. Maybe someday he’ll come around._  
  
And maybe it’s time for a few innovations…like eliminating the tradition of decorating the couples’ car. The ‘Vette will never be the same. Sacrilege.  
  
 _All right. Enough. Tell me something good. Like my mother used to ask me, What was the best thing that happened to you yesterday?_  
  
You know what. Don’t make me write it.  
  
 _You’ll survive the trauma._  
  
You’re going to owe me, big time. The best part, the only part that made everything else even remotely bearable, was slipping that ring on your finger. All right…happy?  
  
 _I will be when you write out the words. I want them in our journals._  
  
Yeah, and people in hell want ice water.  
  
 _I’m being serious, Brian. Please? I want your vows, in your words, written by you, just the way you said them. Then I’ll add mine and leave you alone._  
  
Hmm, I could have sworn someone said he was not lesbianic and doesn’t whine. How about I write and then you give me a blowjob?  
  
 _You’re ready AGAIN?_  
  
It’s amazing what this platinum band has done for me. Had I known sooner I might have married you years ago.  
  
 _Whatever…type. Now._  
  
OK, but then that’s it. I want your face in my lap.  
  
 _Write._  
  
“With this ring, I, Brian Kinney, give you my promise of honesty, trust, and devotion. I will stand beside you through the good times and the difficult times. I pledge to share my life openly with you, to love you and be by your side through all the days and nights of our lives.”  
  
 _“And with this ring, I, Justin Taylor, entwine my heart with yours. From the first day I laid eyes on you, I knew you were the one. I take you to be no other than who you are. I pledge to you faithfulness and love and I bring to you the very best person that I can be, now and forever.” We did good, didn’t we?_  
  
Yes, we did. I hope you’re satisfied because now you are going to pay for all of this cooperation, and – as I’m sure your mother also said – I don’t want to hear any argument.  
  
 _None given, and...Brian?_  
  
Now what?  
  
 _I love you._  
  
Show me.  



End file.
